Tie Me Down to this World
by Struck Upon a Star
Summary: AH/AU. Alice and Jasper awake in the same hospital, scarred, broken, and searching for meaning. She gives him peace; he gives her joy. They are each other's hope.
1. Prologue: Nature's Second Course

**A/N: This is an AH/AU fic. I'm going to try and maintain some canon elements (as the extent and nature of Alice's and Jasper's injuries reveal themselves, you'll see what I mean), but this will be a largely original story. Please bear in mind before you start reading that this story is rated for graphic descriptions of debilitating wounds, strong language, and eventual sexual content.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

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**Tie Me Down to this World**

_**"Show your face, please, tie me down somewhere. Tie me down to this world. I don't want to join the ghosts. I'm just an ordinary person. I need you."  
~Haruki Murakami, Dance, Dance, Dance

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Prologue: _Nature's Second Course_

"_Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care  
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath  
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,  
Chief nourisher in life's feast."  
~ William Shakespeare, Macbeth

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**JPOV**

"He's waking up."

_No._

"Are you sure? He's not moving."

_No._

"Look at his eyes. He's forcing them shut now, but he's awake."

"Jasper, Jasper darling, can you hear me?"

_No._

"Jasper, it's Mom. I know it hurts, but you have to try and open your eyes now, hun."

_No, you're wrong. It doesn't hurt. Not yet. But if you make me come to you, if you rip me from this darkness, then I will feel it. Please, just let me stay here._

But she can't hear me, so she can't know. She can't know how precariously I'm walking the line between waking and sleeping, between pain and peace. So she does the unimaginable: she reaches out and touches my hand.

Just a touch: less a caress than a light gust of wind. And yet, for all its tenderness it may as well have been a giant wrecking ball knocking me over the edge of consciousness. The site where her fingers brush my skin turns into a great fault line that quickly travels across my entire body. My skin rips apart, and I can feel fluid rising to fill the gaps. Everything is tearing, everything is leaking, everything is pain.

I open my eyes and scream.

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**APOV**

I fight to keep my eyes closed, knowing already from the lack of sunlight filtering through my eyelids that it is still nighttime. But it's too late—whatever it was that was so intent upon my waking has accomplished its purpose. And as soon as my mind registers that it is conscious, the questions begin.

"_Where are you from?"_

_I don't know._

"_Who are your parents?"_

_I don't know._

"_What's your name?"_

_I don't know._

It's bad enough to have to go through these questions with my doctor, but it's far worse to have to ask them of myself.

_What kind of person can't even remember her own name?_

Sleep is my only relief from all this. The doctors give me drugs—good drugs—for the pain, and with them, I find I can sleep for twelve hours at a time. And just like that, there's half of my day gone where I don't have to face myself as a stranger, where I don't have to face myself at all.

I push the button at the side of my bed and within minutes a nurse appears in the doorway.

"It hurts," I state simply. Without further question, she comes to my side and injects a shot of morphine into the tube protruding from my arm.

The drugs hit me like a wave, and almost immediately they wash the insistent questions from my mind. Sleep comes next… sleep and darkness.

But in the seconds before sleep, I suddenly remember what it was that woke me in the first place.

_It was a scream._

_Someone was screaming._


	2. Keeping Silence

**A/N: I forgot to mention that the title of this fic comes from ****Haruki Murakami's book Dance, Dance, Dance. That is a phenomenal novel, and if you haven't read it, you absolutely should.**

**Please review if you have any interest in seeing where this story goes. Questions? Concerns? Comments? Review!**

**I'm still not Stephenie Meyer.

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Chapter One: _Keeping Silence_

"_I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."  
~ C.S. Lewis

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**JPOV**

_Tap, tap_.

It's strange how, with every other sound in this place, those two little taps are by far the most annoying. I imagine it has something to do with the fact that it's the only noise I can't place, can't understand. The plinking of the morphine drip is annoying, but at least I know it's serving a purpose by tempering my pain. The heart-rate monitor is similarly irritating, though, at least when I hear it, I know I'm still alive. I know the nurses and doctors well enough by now to differentiate their voices in the hallway, so even though they keep me up at night, I can at least place a name to the sound.

But that damn tapping drives me crazy. It appears to originate somewhere in the wall behind my head. It's always two taps, the exact same amount of pressure on each, both extremely deliberate. And though they're not loud, I find that those two damn taps can wake me up out of even deepest drug induced sleep.

_Tap, tap._

It has to be a mouse. What else would be so consistently and insistently annoying? I consider turning around and punching the wall, thinking that maybe I can scare it away. But even the thought of movement hurts, so I clench my teeth and turn up the volume on my TV instead.

A half hour later, a nurse with an unnaturally bright smile makes her way into my room.

"And how are we feeling today?"

_Like my skin is pulled so tightly across my bones that even the slightest movement could rip it apart._

_Like every ounce of water in my body has evaporated and no matter how much I drink, I will always be a desiccated shell._

_Like I've been split in two and the left side of my body is disintegrating slowly into ash._

"It hurts."

The nurse makes a note on her chart and then moves to my side.

"I know, dear, I'm sorry. Let's get these bandages changed and then I'll let you rest."

Right, rest. As if that's possible in a place like this. If the pain weren't enough to stave off sleep, the constant noise and constant motion of patients and doctors makes it nearly impossible to truly rest. I sleep, when I sleep at all, in fits and starts, never getting more than an hour or two at a time.

I grip the side of my bed with my right hand and look away towards the window as the nurse begins to unravel the bandages from my left shoulder. The first time I was conscious for this procedure, I'd passed out from the pain. I was lucky then. The second time, I'd thrown up when I saw how pieces of my flesh came away when they removed the bandages. And now, though there's no skin left to fall away anymore, the smell of my charred limbs still makes my stomach churn.

I don't scream anymore—I learned quickly that it only makes things worse. Instead, I just allow myself to weep, though tears never fall from my eyes. The weeping takes place in my skin. Those bandages that the nurse so carefully discards into the hazmat bin, they are already soaked with my tears. Only my tears aren't clear anymore—they're yellow and brown and pink from pus and blood. That's all the moisture my body has to offer. It's the only way I can cry.

When the nurse begins applying ointment to wounds, I bite down so hard on my lip that I taste blood in my mouth. I know she's trying to be gentle, but, truth is, even the weight of the air is too much pressure.

"I'm sorry, dear" she says as she sees me cringe in pain, "I know how much it hurts."

_No. You don't know._

I've had all kinds of burns before. Sunburns, burns from candles, from stoves, from irons. Hell, I've even had frostbite before. When I was fifteen my friends and I went skiing and my socks weren't thick enough. When I took off my boots my toes were all but black, and when I ran them under cold water, they felt like they were being—

Well, at the time I'd felt like they were being held into a flame. Now I know better. And no one, _no one_ who hasn't experienced this pain has any concept of how much this hurts.

_Tap tap._

_You've got to be fucking kidding me_.

"Do you hear that?" I ask through my gritted teeth.

"Hear what?"

"That… that _tapping_. I think there's a mouse in my wall," I hiss as the nurse begins rewrapping my wounds.

"I didn't hear anything. But I can assure you there are no mice in the hospital. We get it inspected weekly. Rodents aren't something we can really afford to deal with here."

_Sounds like you missed one_, I think. The pain is too much, I can't speak anymore.

After what seems like an eternity the nurse removes her gloves and throws them in with the rest of my waste.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning," she says before making her way out the door, her ridiculously inappropriate smile still plastered across her face.

Twice a day. I have to have these bandages changed twice a day for… for how many years? Two? Three?

And it's only been two weeks.

My parents stayed for the first day, but as soon as I realized how painful it was for them to watch me, I made them leave. They put up a fight, of course, but I told the hospital staff I didn't want visitors anymore, and since I'm an adult, they had to honor my request. They'd gone home eventually. And, when they'd realized that I wasn't answering my phone, they'd stopped calling too.

It wasn't easy, that's for sure. But I didn't have to look at myself in the mirror to know exactly how much I'd lost in the flames that ravaged my skin. People came to the hospital expecting to see Jasper, but what they ended up seeing was the hollow shell that once encased their son, brother, or friend. I couldn't bear to see the pity and regret in their eyes, so I sent them all away, knowing full well that I might never see them again.

It wasn't easy, but at times like this, when the pain engulfs me anew—when every ounce of my body screams out in agony so that I wish the flames had had the chance to finish the job, I know that I made the right decision. Years of this. Years of constant pain. And the only way I can get through it is if I suffer alone. To have to watch others suffer along with me… that would be unbearable.

The additional morphine begins to take effect and I flip off the television, figuring I'm just about tired enough to get another hour of sleep.

I dim the lights with the control by my bed. The darkness is pleasant. For some reason, it always makes me feel cooler, as though I were immersed in ice. Darkness has other advantages, not least of which is its ability to hide things one would rather others not see. If it were up to me, all of my days would be spent in darkness.

I'm just about to slip into sleep when I hear it again.

_Tap, tap._

This time, it's too much. Though my entire body threatens to rip apart at the effort, I make a fist with my right hand and slam it heavily against the wall above my head. I may not be able to kill whatever it is that's hiding in my wall, but at least I can try to scare it away.

It was a stupid thing to do. I can feel liquid seeping out of the wounds in my chest, and for a moment, even the pounding of my own heart against my ribs is excruciating. I sit, listening to my own heavy breathing, waiting for the pain to subside, and just daring that fucking mouse to make another sound.

When it does, it's not the noise I was expecting.

"So you _can_ hear me," a small, female voice says through my wall.

_What the hell?_

I am _not_ hearing a mouse talking to me. This has to be the morphine talking. I sit in silence, hoping that I don't hear it again.

But of course, I do.

"Jasper?" it asks.

The voice may be muffled by the wall, but without a doubt, someone, or _something_ just spoke my name.

"_What the hell?"_ This time, I speak it aloud.

"I'm sorry," the voice says sadly, "I didn't mean to bother you, or scare you. It's just that I can hear everything that goes on over there, and I just wanted to know if you could hear me too."

And then it clicks. It's not a mouse I'm hearing, it's a patient, just like me. We must have adjoining rooms. I'm suddenly embarrassed, understanding that all of the moments I thought were so private really weren't private at all. Embarrassment fades to anger when I realize that this woman, no, this girl, has intruded on all of my conversations, all of my struggles, all of my _pain_ for the past two weeks without my permission.

I suddenly have to fight the urge not to punch the wall again.

"I'll try to keep it down," I mutter instead.

"That's not what I meant," the voice says, hurriedly, "I just… I mean… if we can both hear each other, I thought maybe we could… you know… talk?"

I close my eyes. She sounds like a sweet girl, I guess. But this isn't what I want. I don't want to talk to her; I don't want to talk to _anyone_. I've taken care to break my ties with everyone I know. I don't need to create new ones now. I don't want to hurt her—it's obvious she's lonely and probably afraid. But I have nothing to offer her but my pain, and I've already sworn to myself that I won't let my pain affect anyone but me. It's my fault I'm in here, and for that, I'll suffer alone.

"Sorry," I say, trying to sound firm but apologetic, "I'm not the talking type. Maybe you should have someone move your bed against the other wall. You might have better luck with someone else."

The room is silent for a long time. I'm about to drift back into sleep when I hear it.

_Tap, tap_.

I groan loudly.

"I'm sorry," the voice says, much softer now than it was before, "it's just that… well, I've been doing that for weeks now—tapping on your wall before I go to sleep. It's how I say 'goodnight' to you. Do you mind if I keep that up? Only at night, of course. I don't expect a response or anything. It just… it makes me feel normal."

_Normal._

I've been robbed of that feeling too. I'd give anything to have it back. And if, for whatever reason, tapping against that stupid wall makes this feel normal… well, I sure as hell am not going to be the one to take that from her.

"Sure, whatever," I sigh, "I've put up with it for this long."

"Thank you," the voice whispers through the wall.

_Tap, tap_.

_Normal._

I raise my right hand so that it is bathed in the moonlight pouring in through the window. I examine the tendons that run from my wrist down into my arm. I move my fingers one by one, watching as each responds with graceful elegance. I clench the hand into a fist, and watch how the blue veins stand out against the translucence of the pale skin.

Still making a fist, I let my hand fall back down beside me. I hiss as the slight jostling of the bed sends fresh tremors of pain through my body. Everything hurts, everything burns. All I can think about is the pain.

That hand—that's all I have left of normal.


	3. Not Even Past

**A/N: This chapter is from APOV, and it's a lot of exposition--still just setting up the story.  
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**Stephenie Meyer called and wanted me to remind you that I'm not her.

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Chapter Two: _Not Even Past_

"_The past is never dead. It's not even past."  
~William Faulkner, __Requiem for a Nun

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**APOV**

The doctors want me to choose a name for myself. I guess they're tired of calling me 'dear,' or 'hun,' or any one of the endearing yet generic monikers they use on their other patients. As they keep reminding me ad nauseum, I'm _special_, so I guess that entitles me to a real name.

Like any _real girl_.

And yeah, okay, I guess I should pick out a name, 'cause after all, I _am_ special. Special because I survived when so many others didn't. Special because I regained consciousness when no one thought I would. Special because I can't remember a damn thing about myself before I woke up surrounded in a pool of my own blood. Special because I can talk, and think, and reason despite not having any sense or understanding of who I am.

Special because, though it's been almost a month since the accident, no one has come searching for me. No one has come to claim me. No one wants me.

Really freaking special.

I have no fingerprints, DNA, or dental records on file. The doctors try to joke with me and tell me that at least this means I'm not a convicted felon. Right. I'm what, a five-foot-two, ninety pound, eighteen year-old girl? How many armed robberies could I possibly have committed?

Truth is, when they were running all my information through their databases, I really freaking hoped I was a criminal. I mean, nothing major—no murders or corporate embezzlement or anything like that. But maybe, like, shoplifting gum from a convenience store when I was ten, or smoking pot with my friends my first year in college. But no, nothing. Apparently, whoever I used to be had a rap sheet that was as clean as a whistle.

Damn her.

During my first week at the hospital, the doctors were all about getting the media involved. They wanted to get my face out there, to plaster my story all over the news, as well as on every lamppost, store window, and bulletin board in Philadelphia. But as soon as they started suggesting things like interviews and photographs to me, I told them I wasn't interested.

The doctors thought I refused because I was afraid an ill-intentioned person might try to take advantage of my memory loss and claim me without actually knowing me. They spent days trying to assure me that they'd do everything in their power to protect me—that they would require birth certificates, DNA tests, pictures, and sworn testimonies before releasing me into a stranger's arms. But I kept on refusing, and finally they let it go, hoping, perhaps, that as my recovery progressed, so too would my trust in others.

I let them think that, but the truth is, being afraid that the wrong kind of person will find me is the least of my worries. I'm more afraid that _no one_ will come.

Looking at the facts, that's a pretty safe bet. In that first week, the accident was _the_ major news headline. It was in every newspaper, on every television station, on every radio. There were hotlines and press releases—if someone wanted to, they'd have no trouble finding me. But no one ever called, no one ever came to the hospital. No one was looking for me.

The way I see, it this can mean one of two things. Either everyone I know is dead, in which case, I don't really think I want to deal with that, or, more probably, no one cares. Maybe in my past life I was so shy or repulsive or annoying or _whatever_ that people couldn't stand to be around me. And now that I'm gone… well, they just don't care.

It's a sobering thought, but in the absence of any other explanation, it's really the only thing that makes sense. And so, rather than suffer through the humiliation of public rejection, I chose to start my life over again—to start from the beginning. Perhaps I wasn't worth much before, but now, with this new chance, maybe I can turn myself into someone worth loving.

It's not that I don't wish I could have my memories back. My doctors say that I'm probably about eighteen or nineteen years old—and eighteen or nineteen years measured against the span of a human life… well, that's a significant amount of time. And I'm sure that no life, even a pitiful one like I must have had, is ever completely devoid of happiness. I'd like the happy memories—hell, I might even like the sad ones… but every day that passes without answers, without progress, the chances of ever regaining my memory get slimmer and slimmer.

And it's useless to hope for something that will never happen. If the memories ever come, well… let them come. I'll deal with them when they do. But if not, I don't want to waste my second chance obsessed with a life I can never recover. I want to start living, and the emptiness of my past isn't going to stop me from moving forward.

That's how I started tapping on Jasper's wall. He moved into the room next to me a few days after I'd sent all the media away. It was his scream that woke me on the first night he moved in, and once I'd realized what I was hearing, I couldn't fall back asleep. I just lay awake, listening to him scream for what seemed like hours. At first, I was terrified. But the more I listened, the more I felt oddly _comforted_. This place, this stupid hospital, it's so damn serene—everyone tiptoes around me like I'm made of glass, like if they touch me, or speak too loudly, I might shatter. But his screaming… it was exactly the sound my soul had been making since I'd woken up after the accident. It was like he was voicing my pain as well as his own, like he could _feel_ every frustration, every bit of agony and despair within me and was just releasing it all into the night.

The next morning, once his screaming had stopped, I began tapping on his wall. I didn't expect him to answer really. I just wanted him to know I was there. It was a strange paradox—I didn't even know who _I _was, but for whatever reason, I wanted him to know that _I _existed. It was the first time I'd felt connected to anyone since the accident, and it wasn't a feeling I wanted to lose.

I listened through the walls as he sent away his family and his friends. I listened to all his pain and suffered it right along with him. And all the while I kept up my silly tapping, just praying that he might hear me and understand what I was trying to say.

_Tap, tap. I'm here._

_Tap, tap. You're not alone._

Of course, when he did finally respond, it was only to tell me to knock it off. But I wonder if he knows that the night he finally let me talk to him—that was the first night he didn't wake up screaming.

Since then he's kept his TV on all day… really freaking loudly too. When the doctors come in to do my therapy or to ask me questions, we can hardly even hear each other speak over the noise. But as soon as my hand raps against the wall each evening, the room goes quiet. How he can hear me over all that noise, I'll never know, but he does. And in that first silent moment when the television goes quiet, it's like he's saying 'goodnight' to me as well.

I just wish I knew who he was saying goodnight _to_.

I can hear the TV in his room now. Sometimes, I'll listen along with him if the show sounds interesting, but today he's watching soap operas, and frankly, I find them kind of stupid. So instead, I pick up the heavy stack of papers next to my bed and begin looking over the list of baby names one of the nurses printed out for me. As the hospital staff has reminded me countless times, not everyone gets to pick out their own name, though many wish they'd been given a choice. A nurse who was named after the town she was conceived in is particularly adamant that I make the most of this power.

But what all those people don't seem to understand is how wonderful it is to be named by someone else. For most people, no matter how silly or ridiculous their name is, it's the name their _parents_ gave them, and that in and of itself makes the name special. For the rest of their lives, no matter how alone they might feel, they need only think of their name to be reminded that they are loved. Sure, I get to pick my own name, but that reminder… that's something I'll never have.

I shake these thoughts from my head and direct my full attention to the stack of papers before me. But before I've even gotten through the first page, a nurse interrupts me by knocking on my door. I put the papers down, and signal to her to come in.

"Have you found one yet?" she asks, smiling at me hopefully.

"No," I sigh, "I didn't know there were so _many_. It's hard to know which one is the right one."

"You'll find one," she assures me, "just take your time."

The smile fades from her face and she begins fidgeting uncomfortably in the doorway. I raise my eyebrows at her in a gesture that clearly says, _spit it out_. She sighs.

"There's a policeman here… he wants to ask you a few questions, if you think you're up to it?"

I eye her suspiciously. This is exactly the kind of thing I want to avoid. She notices my reluctance and continues hurriedly.

"He just wants to show you some things, and ask you some questions about the accident."

"They've already _asked_ me about the accident," I say, getting annoyed. "They took my statement and everything."

It consisted of three words: _I don't remember._

"I know," the nurse says apologetically, placating, "but he just has a few more. I promise it will be over in a few minutes."

I sigh and look away from her to stare out my window.

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Of course you have a choice. No one's going to force you to do anything you don't want to. But I just think that—"

"Whatever," I cut her off, "let's just get this over with. Go ahead and bring him in."

The nurse opens the door and a policeman enters carrying a large plastic bin, which he sets next to me on my bed before taking a seat.

"Ma'am," he said, removing his hat, "I have some personal articles with me that were recovered from the accident scene. They've been shown to most of the survivors and victims' families now, and, we thought you might like to take a look at the things that no one has claimed and see if you recognize anything."

I look at the bin skeptically.

"I don't remember anything," I say, repeating the same mantra I've been repeating for nearly a month now.

"I know that, dear," the nurse chimes in, "but seeing something familiar might help jog your memory. It can't hurt to try."

_It took a freaking gash in the middle of my head to "jog" my memory the first time. What makes you think just touching an object with my hand is going to have any effect on me now?_

The policeman and the nurse stare at me expectantly, so I sigh and pull the bin closer to me to get a better look. An empty purse, a leather jacket, a date book, a silver pen—how can they even be sure any of this was from the accident? Someone could have just dropped this stuff on the street. It's ridiculous.

"No," I say, shrugging my shoulders, "nothing looks familiar."

_Told you._

The officer nods and stands up.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

I smile at him as he turns to go, but just as he reaches the doorway the nurse stops him.

"Wait," she says, moving closer to the bin, "what's this?"

She reaches in amongst the random items and pulls out a silver bracelet. She studies it for a minute, looks at me, and then turns her attention to the officer.

"This is hers," she says quietly, "I know it."

_What the…?_

The policeman seems just as confused as I am, so the nurse goes to the foot of the bed and pulls out my chart. She rifles through it for a moment before finding what she's looking for and bringing it back to where the officer is standing.

"She has a tattoo," the nurse explains, handing the officer what appears to be a picture, "it's the same."

_I have a tattoo? How could I not know I have a tattoo?_

The officer turns to me and hands me the photograph. It's a picture of a lower back—_my_ lower back—on which is painted a red heart adorned with a gold crown, and surrounded by an intricate pattern of golden lace.

Instinctively I reach around to try touch my lower back, but as soon as my chest moves, my ribs scream out in pain, so I drop my hand back to my side and look at the nurse questioningly.

"It's you, hun," the nurse assures me, "we took these pictures the day you were admitted. We haven't shown them to anyone—not even you. If someone had come for you, we would have asked them if you had any distinguishing marks, and we didn't want to compromise your safety by allowing this photo to get out. I don't know what it is, or what it means, but it's the same design that's on this bracelet."

As she speaks, she places the bracelet down on the bed next to me. I take it in my hand, and when I look at it, I see for the first time that it has a small charm on it: a silver heart with a silver crown.

"The Queen of Hearts."

I look up sharply, trying to figure out who just spoke. But both the nurse and the policeman are looking at me with a strange mixture of surprise and pity and apprehension. And then I realize that it was _me. I_ just said that.

"Do you recognize it?" the officer says, cautiously.

"No," I reply, honestly. Because it's true, I don't. I can't say I've ever seen this bracelet before, I don't remember ever buying it, or ever wearing it. But still…

_Some part of me knows what it is_.

"I think that's enough for today," the nurse says. She suddenly sounds so far away. "This must be a shock for her—she's lost all her color. She needs to rest. You'd better leave."

"Of course," the officer replies. He takes a step closer to me and reaches out for the bracelet.

"Can I," I start, surprised by how small my voice sounds, "can't I keep it?"

The officer frowns and looks at the nurse who returns his frown with a menacing warning glance of her own. _Don't you dare take that from her_ she says with her eyes. Bless her.

The officer backs away from me.

"I suppose," he says, "but if someone comes looking for it, you know I'll have to—"

"Yes, yes," the nurse replies, walking to the door and holding it open for him, "if someone claims it we'll give it back. But no one will because it's _hers_."

The officer nods and tips his hat to me. "Good day, ma'am," he says. And then he's gone.

The nurse comes back to my bed and sits down in the chair the officer has just vacated.

"Are you okay, dear?" she asks, gently placing her hand over mine.

"I guess," I say. Then, after a minute of silence I continue. "You know, I really have no idea what this is. I don't remember it at all. I still don't remember anything."

To my surprise, I sound disappointed.

"Even if you don't remember it, it's still yours," the nurse says softly, "I recognized it as soon as I saw it. It belongs to you. You should wear it." As she speaks, she takes the bracelet from my hand and fastens it around my wrist. Neither of us comment on the fact that it fits perfectly. We don't need to.

After a moment, a question occurs to me.

"What does it mean? What I said before, what I called this… what does it mean?"

The nurse looks at me, confused, but then nods in understanding.

"'Queen of Hearts'? It's a playing card. Like the four of clubs, or the king of diamonds."

I guess that sounds vaguely familiar. But still, why would I have a playing card tattooed on my body?

"Can it be anything else?"

The nurse frowns as she tries to think.

"Oh," she says, after a minute, "my daughter, she watches those Disney movies. There was a Queen of Hearts in one of those, I think. Maybe _Snow White_? Or _Sleeping Beauty?_ No… Oh! I've got it. _Wonderland_. There's a Queen of Hearts in _Alice in Wonderland_."

As soon as she says the word, I freeze. The normally quiet, blank space where my memories should be suddenly sparks to life with a cacophony of seemingly disconnected and nonsensical words and phrases.

_who's been painting my roses red… a very happy unbirthday… Alice… curiouser and curiouser…how doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail… Alice… cabbages and kings… Alice… Alice… Alice…_

"Alice?"

I look up with a start. As quickly as they had come, the snippets of sound fade back into the recesses of my mind and my memories go quiet once again. My nurse stares at me with concern. For the first time I realize that my heart is pounding, and a sheen of sweat is covering my entire body.

"Are you okay? Let me go get your doctor."

"No," I say, gripping the nurse's hand to prevent her from leaving. "Just give me a minute."

We sit in silence as I try to calm down. Finally, when my breathing has slowed and the heart rate monitor next to my bed has resumed a normal tempo, I turn to the nurse and meet her eyes.

"You… you called me Alice?"

She shakes her head. "No, dear, I didn't say anything. That was you."

So, for the second time today I've spoken out loud without realizing it. God, what's _happening_ to me?

"Do you remember something?" the nurse asks, rubbing my hand gently.

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

"No," I say, "nothing really. Just words. But that _name_. I think… I think…"

I trail off, not really knowing _what_ I think. Or at least, I'm afraid to voice my thoughts.

"You think it might be yours?" the nurse finishes for me.

I nod, and brush the charm on the bracelet with my fingers.

"Alice," she says, smiling at me, "that's such a pretty name. It suits you."

_Alice._ It _is_ pretty. And when she says it, when she calls me by that name. it just feels _right_. The chances that Alice was really my name before the accident are slim—probably closer to "impossible" actually. But I don't care, because for only the second time in the month that I've been here, something finally feels _right._

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, ignoring, momentarily, the pain I feel in my ribs.

"I think I should let you get your rest now," the nurse says, standing up and placing the photograph of my tattoo back in the folder at the foot of my bed. "Do you need anything before I go?"

I shake my head.

"Sleep well, Alice," she whispers quietly before turning off the light and leaving the room.

Outside my window, I can see that the sun is only now beginning to set in the sky. It's still early—probably barely past five o'clock or so. But despite the early hour, I'm absolutely ready for sleep. Because, finally, I have an answer to one of the questions that threatens to keep me up every night.

_I have a name_.

And with that knowledge, I find that, even without my painkillers, I'm relaxed enough to be able to truly rest.

I close my eyes and tap on the wall behind me.

_Goodnight, Jasper_.

Immediately, the noise from the television fades.

_Goodnight, Alice.

* * *

_

**A close approximation of Alice's tattoo is up on my profile as a link.  
**


	4. Of Marble and Angels

**A/N: This is their first "real" conversation from both of their POVs. I tried not to make it **_**too, **_**too repetitive in the Jasper section, but some stuff necessarily gets covered twice. This will be the only time that the same events are narrated from both POVs.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

**

* * *

**

Chapter Three: _Of Marble and Angels_

"_I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."  
~Michelangelo_

_

* * *

_

**APOV**

I can hear the water crashing against the shore. I can smell and taste the salt in the air, and my arms and legs are warm with the heat of the sun. I dig my toes into the sand, feeling each individual grain of it rub against the soles of my feet. And when I open my eyes, the images I see before me confirm the observation all my other senses have already made.

_I'm on a beach._

Both sand and surf are crowded with people sunbathing, building sandcastles, looking for shells, swimming, and floating on the water. At first glance, I don't recognize anyone I see. But then I catch sight of four figures that stand out from all the rest. Two men and two women stand together, shimmering in the sun, at the place where the water rises up to meet the sand. From this distance, I can't see their faces, but I can tell that they're waving at me, motioning for them to join them. I smile, relieved and elated that I'm not alone. But as soon as I take the first step forward to join them, everything disappears.

The sound of the waves dissolves into the steady, monotonous beeping of the machines above my bed. I taste and smell only antiseptic, bleach, and something else that can only be described as _illness_. My toes are cold where they stick out of my casts. And when I open my eyes, all I can see are my tears.

When I cry like this, all I want to do is curl up into a ball and sob into my knees for hours. I think that's some kind of human instinct—to want to muffle the pain and the suffering by making oneself as tiny as possible. But every part of me from my chest to my ankles is immobilized—either by plaster or by pain—and so, I just lie here on my back, sobbing openly into the night, wondering if, in this position, it's possible for me to choke on my own tears.

It's not, by the way—possible. If it were, I would have done it nights ago when these dreams first started. Or _dream_, I guess I should say, 'cause it's always the same one. It's always the same beach, always the same four people, and always the same action of mine—raising my foot to go to them—that precipitates the dream's end.

I've given up actively seeking out my past during the day, but at night… at night it seems I have no control over what I search for. And certainly, in my dreams at least, I have no control over what I find.

Each night I struggle to remain silent through my tears, but tonight when I feel the wet stain on my pillow creeping against my neck, an unwitting sob breaks from my lips. Quickly, I bring my hand up to my face to stifle the noise, and then I watch the door apprehensively, praying that no one has heard me. I couldn't stand for someone to see me like this. Seeing the pity in another's eyes… that would just enhance my pain. Thankfully, the lights remain off and my door remains shut. I don't think I've ever been so happy to be alone.

I dry my eyes with the back of my hand and listen to the sound of my own stuttering breathing, trying to calm myself by its uneven rhythm. But just when I start getting it under control, I heard a noise that stops it completely.

It's so soft that at first I think I must be imagining things. So I just lie in my bed, unmoving, unbreathing, hoping that I've misheard. But in the silence I hear it again—unmistakable this time: two knocks against my wall.

_Holy crap_.

I've gotten so used to my one-way communication with Jasper that I'd all but forgot that he could even hear me. And he'd made it pretty damn clear on that first night that he had no intention of ever getting to know me. So the fact that he's been the inadvertent audience to this pitiful outburst of mine—that he's had to sit on the other side of our wall and listen to me cry like a little child…

Wow, that's really freaking embarrassing.

I let my breathing resume, but I say nothing, figuring that, like the first night we talked, he's just trying to tell me to quiet down so he can sleep. But, for the second time tonight, he surprises me.

"Alice?" I hear him say through the wall.

_Holy. Crap._

I ignore the fact that he suddenly seems to know my name; we've already established that the walls in this place are paper-thin—he was bound to learn it sooner or later, whether he wanted to or not. Instead, I concentrate on the idea that I've finally annoyed him enough that he has to break his own rule and actually _speak_ to me to get me to leave him alone. _Humiliating. Pitiful._

I take a deep breath, and calm myself down enough to apologize.

"I--I'm really sorry… I'll try to keep it down," I say, using the same words he'd used on me the first time we talked. It seems to work. For a moment, both rooms go silent, and I just pray that he's been able to fall back asleep. But of course, I have no such luck.

"What?" he says, the annoyance in his voice not at all getting lost in the barrier of the wall, "No. If I wanted to get you to be quiet do you think I'd waste my energy knocking on a fucking wall? I don't think so. I'd push the little button next to my bed and get a nurse to do that for me."

It takes a moment for me to process what he's just said. But even after I've analyzed every single word, I find I'm still confused.

"Um… okay then. What? What do you want?"

He sighs. "You know what? Never mind. Just forget I said anything."

"No!" I practically yell, not willing to let him go without an answer, "tell me. Please," I add, timidly.

He sighs again. "I just, you know… You were crying, right?" I nod, forgetting for the moment that he can't see me. But he seems to take my silence for a 'yes,' since he continues. "Well, I just wanted to… you know… make sure you were okay."

_What?_

For almost three weeks he's been deliberately ignoring me. And for two weeks before that he was _unintentionally _ignoring me. I could be wrong, but all signs seem to point to the fact that this guy wants nothing to do with me. And now, all of a sudden, he cares about whether or not I'm _okay_?

I feel my cheeks flush red with embarrassment and confusion. Realizing I have to say something, _anything_, I settle for the shortest sentence my brain can form.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You sure don't _sound_ fine," he scoffs, "at least you didn't a few minutes ago."

I cringe—_is he really not going to let this go?_

"Do you want to… you know… talk about it?" he asks.

_Nope. Apparently not_.

"No," I say abruptly. "I mean, that's really nice of you," I qualify, allowing my voice to assume a gentler tone, "but I just don't think I want to get into that right now."

"Okay then. Whatever," he says, verbally shrugging through his inflection.

He seems content to let it drop. And really, I should let it go as well because he's already expended a fair bit of effort on my behalf tonight. But I'm not ready to go back and face my dreams again, and since he's already broken our silence… I decide to give conversation another try.

"But maybe we could just talk for a little while, if that's okay with you?" I ask, nervously. I regret it the moment it's out of my mouth. I feel my face getting impossibly redder as I anticipate his negative reaction to this suggestion. But I guess, tonight, Jasper's just full of surprises.

"Yeah, okay," he says. "What do you want to talk about?"

The doctors must have put him on some new drugs… _stronger_ drugs. This is ridiculous. How does someone go from not wanting to have anything to do with you to agreeing to have a conversation with you through a wall? But, since this may be my only opportunity to get to know my neighbor, I decide to seize it.

"How old are you?" I ask. I hear him stifle a laugh.

"Seriously?" he questions, "Of all the things you could've asked, you want to know my _age_?" When I don't respond, he continues. "Okay, then, I'm twenty. And you?"

"Nineteen," I answer. Actually, the doctors figure I'm probably close to eighteen, but knowing his age, I want to be able to sound as old as I can.

"How tall are you?" I continue, growing more confident in my conversational abilities.

"Just over six feet. You?"

"Five-two," I say, grimacing slightly. There's no faking height. "What color are your eyes?"

This time he chuckles audibly. "My eyes? I don't think I've ever been asked that question before. They're grey I guess. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, but mostly… just grey. What about you?"

"Brown," I answer automatically. Since the accident I've been too afraid to actually look at myself in the mirror, but all of the nurses tell me that I have beautiful brown eyes. Since they never compliment me on anything else, I figure my eyes are just about the only beautiful part about me.

"And your hair?" I ask, shaking those thoughts from my head.

"Blonde," he says. "It looks brown now, 'cause it's so short. But when I grow it out a little longer, it's blonde. And kinda curly. How about yours?"

I frown. This is a touchy subject, and I should have thought about it before bringing it up. The doctors had to shave all my hair off in order to operate on the gash on my head, and it's only now starting to grow back. And parts of it… parts of it will never grow back at all.

"I'm not quite sure," I say, trying to conceal my sadness, "I haven't seen it yet. The nurses tell me it's dark brown, almost black. But I really wouldn't know."

Silence from the other room. Another dumb thing for me to say. I should have just stuck with 'brown.'

"Sorry," Jasper says, finally, "that was a stupid question to ask."

"No," I say, relieved that he's still speaking to me, "it was normal. If it bothered me, I wouldn't have brought it up." I pause for a second, thinking about how I can steer this conversation away from the course it's taken.

"How about music?" I ask lightly, "What kind of music do you like?" _There. Perfectly normal question._

He hesitates for a moment before answering. "Umm, you know, the usual stuff. Rap, rock… pretty much anything I guess."

He doesn't cross-examine me this time, so I guess he somehow knows that musical preference is another question to which I have no answer. Which is fine with me—I'd rather learn more about him anyway.

"What's your favorite TV show?" I ask, figuring, from all the television watching he does during the day, this is probably another safe topic.

"I dunno," he says, "I guess I'll watch anything." Another disappointingly generic answer. Well, I'll get a real answer out of him sometime, even if I have to resort to teasing. Which I do.

"What," I ask, feigning innocence, "you don't have a favorite soap opera?"

Silence. _Ha, gotcha_.

"You can hear that, huh?" he asks, sheepishly.

_Jasper, _I want to say, _with the volume you have that damn TV set at, it's a wonder everyone in the __hospital__ can't hear it._

"Yeah," I settle for instead.

"Well," he says, "in my defense there's nothing else to do around here during the day. I mean, what do _you_ do to pass the time?"

Well, that's simple enough. "The nurses bring me books and magazines. I read."

"Oh. And what's your favorite thing to read?"

I think for a second. _They're all pretty good_ is the easiest answer, and, given his general responses to my questions, it's frankly the most appropriate as well. But for some reason, my mouth starts talking before my mind can catch up, and what I say proves to be a rather humiliating testament to how pitiful I really am.

"I don't know—I don't have a favorite genre, or a favorite author, or even a favorite _subject_ yet because I haven't had any time to develop my tastes. Truth is, Jasper, I probably know more about _you_ than I know about myself."

And there it is. I might as well have said, _I've been listening to everything that's been going on in your room for five weeks and I now know more about you than any human being has any right to know about another person. Ever_.

Yeah, it basically amounts to the same thing.

"What do you mean?" Jasper asks cautiously.

"Never mind," I say quickly, hoping I can get him to let it go, "Just forget it."

"No," he says, just as quickly, "What kinds of things do you think you know about me?"

I grimace. _Stupid, Alice. Lesson number one for your new life: learn how to keep your mouth shut._

"Okay," I say, "but promise not to get mad."

No answer from the other side of the wall. I sigh, and continue anyway, speaking so quickly I don't even have time to breathe.

"Every time someone leaves your room you tell them to turn down the lights, so I guess that means you like being in the dark. You grind your teeth when you sleep. Your favorite basketball team is the Knicks. You get a newspaper every morning, but you only read two sections—I can hear the rest of them drop when you throw them on the floor. One of parts you read is probably the comics, 'cause sometimes I can hear you laughing. You prefer chocolate pudding to vanilla, which I can tell because every time we get served vanilla, you get in trouble for not finishing your meal. Oh, and you _do _have a favorite soap opera. _All My Children_. It's the only one you watch every single day."

Yep. That seals it. I'm a stalker. And from the complete and total silence coming from the other room, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks so. Why, oh _why_ can't I control what I say?

Suddenly, I hear Jasper erupt into laughter. _He's… laughing at me?_ Yes. And it's not a chuckle, or a snicker, but a real, bellowing laughter that's so loud I'm afraid it might draw the attention of the nurses. I've _never_ heard him laugh like that. Not once. And the fact that it's at my expense doesn't even matter, because the sound of it… well, obviously I have little basis for comparison, but it may in fact be the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

"I'm glad you think it's so funny," I say sarcastically, as his breathing begins to slow.

"I'm sorry," he finally says in between breaths, "I shouldn't laugh. That's just… ha. That's one of the funniest things I've ever heard."

"You're not mad, then?" I ask, hopefully.

"Mad?" he says, his voice still smiling, "Not at all. It's not your fault these walls are so damn thin. And I can't blame you for paying such good attention, either. Hell, _I _didn't even know the part about the pudding. But now that I think about it, you're right. Vanilla really is kinda gross."

He starts laughing again, though much more quietly, and this time I join him, relieved that he doesn't hold what I've just told him against me.

I know more, of course. Much more. But those other things that I know—those are the kind of things that I understand enough to keep silent about. If, one day, he wants to tell me about them, I'll let him tell me like it's the first time I'm hearing them. And if he never brings them up, then neither will I. Because when you've been through the kinds of things we've been through—that's just how communication has to work.

"Hey," Jasper says, once he's gotten his breathing back under control, "you know, I have a bunch of books with me that I had sent over from home. I've read 'em all, and I don't really need to read 'em again, at least not right away. I could have the nurses bring some over to you… you know, since you're so bored. Maybe it'd help you figure out what you like."

I nod, again forgetting that he can't see me. Talking with him like this, it's so hard to remember that we're not in the same room, sitting side by side.

"Yeah," I say aloud when I realize my mistake, "that would be great. I'm getting a little tired of _Cosmo_ and romance novels, to be honest."

"Oh God," he groans, "If that's what they're giving you, I'll be sure to send mine over first thing in the morning. In fact, to tell you the truth, I'm almost tempted to ring this damn bell and get a nurse to bring them over to you right now."

I attempt to laugh at his joke, but as soon as I open my mouth my laughter turns into a giant yawn. I look at my clock and realize it's 3:30 in the morning. _We've been talking for an hour_.

"You're tired," he states, "I should let you get some sleep."

"It's okay," I say, though suddenly I really am feeling exhausted, "I can stay awake a little longer."

"Don't worry," he teases, "It's not like I'm going anywhere. I'll still be here in the morning."

And he's right, at least in part. Physically, he's just as confined to his hospital room as I am. But, with this sudden change in his personality, I do wonder _which_ Jasper will greet me when I wake up again. And so I have to ask.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he says. And, from the way he says it, I believe him.

"G'night then," I say just before I close my eyes, my words already slurred with sleep.

"'_Night, Alice," _is the last thing I hear before the darkness takes me.

***

**JPOV**

I don't want to get involved. It's not my place. There are specialists for this kind of thing: therapists, psychiatrists… people who shelled out thousands of dollars so they could get degrees to be able to help people through this crap. It's none of my business anyway. Whatever she's going through—that's private shit that she's probably not even aware I can hear. I _really _don't want to get involved.

But saying that doesn't mean I don't _care_. In fact, that's the furthest thing from the truth. She might as well be letting her salty tears drop directly into my burns for how much it hurts me to have to listen to her cry. Because what she's going through—that pain, those nightmares—no one deserves that, least of all her.

Yeah, I'll admit I was kind of a dick during our first conversation. But in my defense, well… not to sound like a broken record or anything, but I _was_ in a hell of a lot of pain. And that tapping—it was pretty fucking annoying, too. But even more than that, I just wanted her to _get_ the fact that I'm no good for her. Even as a disembodied voice floating through a wall, I'm fucking worthless. All I have the capacity to do anymore is hurt—both others and within myself. And clearly, she has enough pain to deal with on her own without having to deal with mine as well. So I pushed her away.

I pushed her away to save her from having to know me.

But a thought occurred to me that night, as I lay there, waiting for sleep to find me. I realized that she was the first person in weeks who had talked to me, not out of some inane misplaced sense of duty or obligation, but because _she'd wanted to_. She could have just done her best to ignore me, as I'd unintentionally ignored her, and we never would have "met." But instead, she'd reached out to me, even if she'd chosen a fucking annoying way to go about it.

And that made me curious. I didn't _want_ to be curious about her; I didn't want to have to think of her again at all. But I didn't sleep at all that night 'cause I was thinking about her so much—wondering what kind of person she was. Because really, who decides to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, in a hospital, through a fucking _wall_?

It got to be pretty fucking ridiculous—me just lying there, unable to sleep because I couldn't stop running hypothetical scenarios through my mind (insanity, orphan, undercover reporter, and the like). So I made a deal with myself—if I could keep her thinking that I didn't care about her, I could use her same sneaky listening-through-the-wall approach to find out information about her. And once I'd found out what her deal was, I'd leave her alone.

Yeah, if only it'd been so simple.

It started off well enough. I just turned up my TV real loud and pressed my head up against my wall during the day. It was highly fucking uncomfortable, sure. But really, _any _position I lie in is highly fucking uncomfortable, so I just dealt with it. And, for the most part, it worked. That first day that I listened to her I got a pretty good sense of her personality—she was funny and bright, and cheerful: everyone who came in contact with her liked her instantly. No craziness or anything along those lines at all. But behind all of her smiles and laughter, there was a kind of sadness. No one spoke about it, no one even alluded to it, but it was definitely there. So I kept listening to find out why that was.

It wasn't until a few days ago, when then policeman came, that I finally realized what had happened to her. And when I did, all the little pieces of her puzzle that hadn't fit before suddenly fell into place—her loneliness, the fact that no one ever came to see her, that no one ever called her by her name, her inability to answer simple questions about her life—she couldn't remember anything. Not a damn thing.

I felt sorry for her, sure—I'd have to be a heartless bastard not to. But there was nothing I could do for her—nothing the nurses and doctors weren't already doing. And plus, I'd fulfilled the terms of my promise to myself—I'd figured out what had happened to her while maintaining my distance. And so it was time to let her go.

Except I couldn't.

Because that was the first night I woke up to the sound of her crying. I wanted so badly to push the button next to my bed and get someone to go to her—to help her. But I knew if I did that, they'd only give her drugs and send her back to sleep. And sleep was clearly the worst possible solution for her problems. So instead, I gave her what I could—privacy, silence—while she drowned out her nightmares with her tears.

The next night, when I heard her tap on my wall before going to sleep, I offered up a prayer to whatever god there is that he would let her sleep through the night. Of course, like all my prayers lately, this one, too, went unanswered. For the second time she woke up crying, and again, all I had to give her was my silence.

For five nights now, it's been the same thing—she, crying so quietly that only I can hear her, and me, lying in my bed just listening to her, utterly and completely helpless.

Tonight it's worse. She's crying harder than she ever has before, and even though I promised myself I wouldn't let it get to me, I find that it really fucking does. Because despite my intentions, despite all the times I've tried to tell myself that I want nothing to do with her, I've really grown to really respect her over these past few weeks. The way she puts on a brave face for all the world despite all the shit she has to go through—that's probably one of the more remarkable things I've ever witnessed in my life. Even now, though she's hurting and confused, she's trying to hide her tears so that she's not a burden on anyone. She's a good person—one of the best I've ever known—and yet here she is, suffering, for something she has no control over.

I hear a sob break out from her lips, and that's the final fucking straw. I reach out and knock my hand against my wall.

It's a decision I'll probably regret for the rest of my life—not because it means anything especially bad for me—I can take care of myself well enough. But for her… I could definitely hurt her more than I can help her. But in this moment, I don't care. She sounds so… _alone_. And I just need to let her know that someone understands, that someone _cares_.

When I get no answer from her, I make a fist and slam the wall harder. It hurts. A lot. But I know it's been worth it when I hear her breathing slowing. Still, she doesn't say anything, so I make my second mistake of the night—I call her by her name.

"Alice?"

_Shit. She's not supposed to know I know that._

But instead of prodding me about my sudden familiarity with her name, she _apologizes_ to me. It's so ridiculous it takes me a moment to even figure out what she's saying.

"I'm really sorry… I'll try to keep it down."

"What?" I ask, annoyed at her assumption, "No. If I wanted to get you to be quiet do you think I'd waste my energy knocking on a fucking wall? I don't think so. I'd push the little button next to my bed and get a nurse to do that for me."

_I mean seriously, does she have any fucking idea how hard it is for me to move my hand enough to tap on that wall?_

"Um… okay then. What? What do you want?"

She sounds… confused. And suddenly, I am too. What the hell was I thinking, imposing on her like this? What right do I have to disturb her in the middle of the night and intrude on her private pain? _None. None whatsoever._

"You know what? Never mind. Just forget I said anything."

I expect her too, as well. But I should have known things wouldn't be so easy with her. Instead, she begs me to tell her what I want.

_Well, okay, you asked for it._

"I just, you know… You were crying, right? Well, I just wanted to… you know… make sure you were okay."

_Lame._ Really fucking lame. I definitely need to stop watching soap operas. All that outrageously overdone melodrama is affecting my judgment.

She tries to tell me she's all right, and honestly, I should just let it go there. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, and I've already way overstepped my boundaries. So, despite the distinct knowledge I have that she's _not_ okay, I decide to just leave her be. But again, I've forgotten about her uncanny ability to make things far more complicated than they really need to be.

"Maybe we could just talk awhile, if that's okay with you?" she asks, really fucking slyly.

_Crap._ I cringe when I think of all the potential topics we might cover in this little "chat." What if she wants to talk about her accident? What if she wants to talk about family or friends? What if she wants to talk about _my_ accident? What if she wants to discuss wounds or pain or scars? I'm not prepared to handle _any_ of that.

For a moment, I consider resorting to "asshole Jasper mode" and pushing her away again. But she just sounds so hopeful, and trusting, that I find the thought of neglecting her request unbearable. So I steel myself for her questioning, and answer her.

"Yeah, okay. What do you want to talk about?"

The pause before she decides on a topic is definitely one of the tenser moments I've ever passed in my life. _Just get on with it_. Finally, she does.

"How old are you?"

Seriously? Of all the terrible, unimaginable things I've basically just given her free rein to ask of me, she wants to know my _age_? I swear to God, if this fucking wall weren't in the way, I'd kiss her.

I answer her question, and we question each other back and forth about physical appearances. I have to say, after three weeks of listening to her voice, it's a relief to finally know these small, physical details.

Our easy banter doesn't last long however, 'cause I have to go and make an ass of myself. Again.

I know I shouldn't ask her about her hair—I've heard her nurses reassuring her that it will grow back and that it will cover the scar that apparently runs across her head. I know it's something she won't want to talk about, but apparently I've forgotten how to think before I speak. It's only when she hesitates that I realize my mistake. When she does finally answer the question, her voice is soft with a poorly-masked sadness.

"I'm sorry," I say, sincerely, "that was a stupid question to ask."

Of course, being Alice, she just forgives me straight away, which I absolutely do not deserve, and moves on to lighter subjects.

When she asks about music, I don't really know what to say, because there's no way in hell I'm going to tell her that I listen to country. That's strictly need-to-know shit, right there. Same deal with television—I hope to God she never finds out that reality shows are a serious weakness of mine. And my recently-acquired soap opera obsession…

_Yeah, too late, she already knows about that one._

Hoping to steer her away from my terrible taste in popular culture, I ask her what she does to keep herself busy during the day. There are, after all, long periods of silence during which I have no idea what she does. Her answer, I think, surprises us both.

"Truth is, Jasper, I probably know more about _you_ than I know about myself."

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

It's hypocritical, I know. After all, I _have_ spent the better part of three weeks pressed against my wall like some crazy obsessive stalker. But she could have heard any number of things in those first two weeks when I didn't know she was listening, and I really shudder to think what kinds of things she's learned. There's stuff about me that I wish _I_ didn't know, so it's unacceptable that she might know these things as well.

"What do you mean?" I ask aloud, really fucking terrified about what she might say.

"Never mind. Just forget it."

_Oh no. You didn't let me get away with that shit before, and you're __not__ getting away with it now._

"No. What kinds of things do you think you know about me?"

"Okay," she says, softly, "but promise not to get mad."

I remain silent, 'cause that's a promise I'm not entirely sure I can keep. But then, so quietly I can barely hear her, she begins rambling off the most hilariously random list of things I think I've ever heard in my life. As she goes on, I feel a smile beginning to grow on my face, and by the time she stops, slightly out of breath from spitting all that information out so quickly, I can't hold it in anymore—I start laughing.

It hurts, there's no question about that. More than knocking on the wall, more than when the nurses change my sheets, more than eating or drinking or sleeping, it hurts to laugh. But I hardly even notice the pain—because, honestly, it just feels so damn _good_ to have something to laugh about. I mean, when was the last time I laughed? Hell, when was the last time I _smiled_? The day before the fire? The week before? The month before? I can't remember. And so I keep laughing, regardless of the painful side effects, because for the first time in weeks, I can feel something stronger than the pain.

"I'm glad you think it's so funny," I hear her say, sheepishly.

I calm myself down enough to apologize, because even though it's funny as hell, I don't want to make her feel uncomfortable. But as soon as I start thinking about that stupid vanilla pudding it just starts all over again, though this time, thankfully, she joins me. And when I hear the sound of her laughter, for the first time un-muffled by the volume of my television, I'm taken aback by how beautiful it is. Like wind chimes and the wind itself, together, at once.

And that's the moment I _know_. The moment I know that, despite all my intentions to stay away from her, it's not going to work. Somehow, over the past few weeks, something has drawn me close to this girl, and now I'm unwilling to let her go. I may have made a huge mistake in breaking the barrier of silence that existed between us tonight, but now that it's broken, there's no reconstructing it. For better or for worse, we're stuck together.

So when her laughter slows, I offer her access to my steadily accumulating library of books. Unlike my musical or television preferences, my literary expertise is not something I feel a need to be ashamed of. Thankfully, she takes me up on my offer. But just as I'm about to start rattling of a list of books I think she'll enjoy, I hear her yawn, so instead, I suggest that we both get some rest.

And then she asks me something that almost makes me laugh aloud again—she asks me to promise I'll still be here in the morning. And though her implicit assumption that I could physically _go _anywhere is somewhat comical, that's not what makes her plea so utterly absurd.

No, it's the fact that she _wants_ me to be here tomorrow, that she _wants _to keep talking to me, that she _wants_ to know me, that constitutes the fucking atrocity here. Because I'm the kind of person she'd be far better off without.

In the most literal sense of the word, she is _innocent_. As far as she knows, no one in her life has ever hurt her, has ever been cruel to her. As far as she knows, no one has ever deliberately caused her pain. But with me, pain is inescapable, unavoidable. Pain is all I am, all I have to give anymore, and because of that, she'll suffer just in knowing me.

It's wrong of me to get close to her—it's downright contemptible actually. But I knew that before I started talking to her tonight, and I did it anyway. And now that I know what I've been missing out on, I'm unwilling to give it up again. I'm tired of spending my days in silence. I'm tired of being alone.

I'm a veritable selfish bastard; I know it. _But maybe there's something I can do about that after all._

I make yet another promise to myself, knowing full well that this one _has_ to stick. If I'm going to know her, if I'm going to let her get close to me, then I'm going to do everything in my fucking power to keep her from having to deal with my shit. Thank God for this fucking wall, really. Because I can hide everything behind it—my body, my pain, my scars—she'll never have to deal with any of that. For her, I'll just be a voice of comfort and encouragement. I'll give her the friendship she wants so that while she's here, she doesn't have to be alone anymore.

And when it comes time for her to leave the hospital, _then_ I _will_ let her go. The relationship we'll form will be based on need and circumstance, and nothing else. That way, when she finally does go on her way, there will be no backwards glances and no regrets. For either of us.

When the gentle cadence of her breathing indicates she's finally fallen asleep, I turn to our wall and give her the only assurance I can that she'll never regret the trust she's placed in me.

"Alice," I whisper, "maybe you feel like you don't know who you are. But _I _do_._

"You keep your blinds open all the time because you like sitting in the sun. You hum classical music to yourself every day, and even though you may not know the names of the songs, you never miss a note. Your favorite color is yellow, your favorite flowers are daffodils, no matter how careful you are, you can't finish a bowl of soup without spilling some on yourself, and I knew your name was Alice long before you found your bracelet, because it's the only name you've ever spoken while you sleep.

"I know who you are, and Alice, I swear I'll do everything in my power to make you happy while I know you. Because, for all the wonderful things that you are, for all the shit you have to deal with, and for all the courage you have to face it, you deserve nothing less than happiness."

Before I let my eyes close, I offer up another silent prayer, just fucking hoping that this will be the one that finally gets answered.

"_Please, God, please don't let me ever hurt her."_


	5. Protection

**A/N: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Chapter Four: _Protection_

_"You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness."  
~Jonathan Safran Foer, __Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_

_

* * *

_

**APOV**

For the first time in three weeks, I wake up to silence, and for that, I can't help but smile. Now that Jasper's damn TV isn't turned up to full volume, I truly realize how much I've missed the quiet. It's peaceful, relaxing… calm. More than that, this sudden reappearance of silence assures me that I didn't imagine everything that happened last night. Jasper really did comfort me after my dream. We really did talk, and he really _is_ still willing to be friends. My smile grows even larger. _I have a friend_.

I press the button that raises my bed into a sitting position, and as soon as the little gears start turning, I hear a knock on our wall.

"You awake over there?"

At the sound of his voice I have to actually bite down on my lip to keep my smile from getting any bigger, because if it does, I'm pretty sure it'll cause irreversible damage to my face. But hearing that voice—_his_ voice… well, I wonder how cliché it would be to call it _miraculous_. Pretty damn cliché, I'm sure. But that's what it seems like to me. 'Cause for the first time that I can remember, it actually feels like someone cares about me. Don't get me wrong—the doctors, the nurses, the therapists—they're all great. But with Jasper, it's different. Because he doesn't _have_ to know me, he _wants _to know me.

So yeah, I'd definitely call that a miracle.

"Yup," I say, trying to sound calm, despite the fact that I'm anything but, "what're you up to?"

"Just got up myself," he says, and I can hear the remains of sleep still lingering in his voice. "Do you want those books now?"

"Wow, yes, thank you _so _much for remembering! I'd love them! I--" I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the nonsensical babble coming from my lips. Somehow, my already high voice has jumped up about an octave with excitement. I also appear to be speaking twice as fast as I normally do… as well as in a dialect that seems more appropriate for a ten-year-old than for an adult.

_Rein it in, Alice_, I think to myself. _You don't want him to think you're some sort of attention-starved lunatic before he's even gotten a chance to know you_.

"I mean, if you don't mind," I add, struggling very hard to control my voice.

"It's no problem at all," he says, not attempting to hide the amusement in his voice whatsoever.

_Great, he's already laughing at me. So much for trying to make a good impression._

I hear a nurse enter his room, and listen to him as he explains about the books.

"_All_ of these?" I hear her ask.

I frown. _How many could there possibly be?_

Five minutes later, after the nurse has made eight trips in-between our two rooms, I know _exactly_ how many there could possibly be. Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven books of various lengths and genres and subjects. _That_ is a whole crap-load of books.

Apparently I'm not the only one who has problems with unbridled enthusiasm.

"Um… thanks?" I say, as the nurse leaves my room for the last time. "That's, um, a lot of books."

He laughs. "Yeah, I'm an English major—in college here in Pennsylvania. At least… I was…"

His voice trails off at this unwelcome reminder of the things that have been taken from him. And even though it wasn't a comment I made that precipitated his sudden sadness, I still feel an overwhelming and inexplicable urge to apologize to him. But that would be pity, and if he's anything like me, pity is pretty much the last thing he wants. So I remain silent, and, like I'd anticipated, it doesn't take him long to come out of his depression on his own.

"Anyway," he continues, his tone forcibly brighter, "the point is that there's definitely some good shit in there. I guarantee you won't be disappointed."

"Well, I don't doubt that," I say, matching his tone while eyeing the enormous pile of books at my bedside warily, "but I don't suppose you have any recommendations about what I should start with?"

If he does, he doesn't get a chance to tell me, because at that moment, I hear the door to his room open. I look over at my clock and realize that it's time for him to have his bandages changed.

"Just pick anything," he says, still expending an enormous amount of effort to make his voice sound effortless, "Like I said, you can't go wrong with any of it. Read carefully—I'll quiz you when I'm done."

And then the damn TV goes back on. I _hate_ that television. And yeah, I'm not a total idiot—I _do_ understand his impulse to use it as a way of securing privacy, especially during those times when his privacy also entails an extraordinary amount of pain. But I hate that he feels he has to _hide_ it from me. Like what, it would make him less of a man if I knew he was hurting?

Well, I've got news for him: I already _know_ he's hurting. And it doesn't make me think less of him at all. In fact, it makes me feel _closer_ to him. Because pain? That's something I can relate to. It's only the absence of it that I don't understand.

Don't get me wrong; it's not that I _want_ him to be hurting. It's just that... Well, last night he helped me through my nightmares by talking to me. And I want to be able to do the same for him. It's not fair that he should be able to reach out to me, but that I should be so powerless when it comes to helping him.

I press my head against our wall, listening for any noises made by either him or the nurse. But with that stupid TV volume turned up so loudly, I can't hear a thing. It's like, even though I'm being bombarded with sound, I'm sitting in an absolute vacuum of silence. And it's so damn frustrating that, before I know it, tears are spilling over my eyelids. It's the same kind of helplessness I feel when I dream, only this… this is something I'll never wake up from.

It takes an hour. One. Full. Hour. By the end of it I'm completely drained of both energy and tears. And the worst part? The worst part is that even when I see the nurse walk by my door with all of his bandages in her arms, he _still_ doesn't turn down that freaking television. Because he's still in pain, and he won't let me help him.

After what seems like an eternity, though it is probably closer to ten minutes, the volume on the television gets muted again. But that goddamn television must be seriously dysfunctional, because its volume always seems to have the opposite effect Jasper intends it to have; before, its loudness had accomplished an eerie feeling of silence. Now, its sudden lack of noise seems deafeningly loud.

"So what did you settle on?" I hear Jasper ask after a few moments.

I thought I'd run out of tears. But as soon as I hear his tired, broken voice drifting through our wall, a terrific new wave of them springs to my eyes. And suddenly, all the anger I'd felt towards him for keeping me locked out of his pain is directed elsewhere—at whatever force that let this happen to him. Because whatever he's just been through, whatever has made him sound so weak and defeated, _he doesn't freaking deserve it_. Not an ounce of it. And whether it's God, or fate, or coincidence… I _hate_ that something is allowing him to suffer.

"Um… Alice? You okay?"

He's asking me if _I'm_ okay? Is he for real?

"Uh, yeah… sorry. I was—" _listening to your pain, crying because I can't help you, challenging god to a battle for the rights to your happiness… you know, the usual _"—just a little distracted, sorry."

"No problem. You sound a little agitated. Should I leave you alone?"

_Crap_. I take a deep breath and struggle to compose my voice.

"No, it's fine, really. What's up?" _That sounded pretty convincing, if I do say so myself_.

"Well, I _did_ ask you a question. What book did you choose?"

_Crap!_ I'd completely forgotten I was supposed to be reading this whole time. Quickly, I grab the first book I can reach.

"Um… The Road. It's really… uh… it's really good so far," I say, trying to read the back flap as I'm talking in case he starts asking me questions. But he doesn't. Instead, he gets… angry.

"What? Fuck, I knew I should have left you with better instructions. That's like jumping in the fucking deep end before you learn how to swim. Put that shit down before you hurt yourself."

Despite his patronizing tone, I'm actually incredibly relieved—both because I don't have to pretend to actually know anything about this book, and because, in his annoyance, his voice sounds marginally stronger.

"All right," I say, putting the book aside, "where _should_ I start then?"

We spend the rest of the morning discussing the finer points of Southern literature. To be honest, it's not really that interesting—as best I can tell, the authors Jasper likes are only obsessed with three things: women, liquor, and the Civil War. But he's clearly in his element talking about this stuff, and as he speaks, his voice gains vigor and humor and passion that I've never heard from him before. He sounds so _alive_ that I'd listen to him talk about it all day, even if I never understood a single word he said.

We're still talking when the nurses bring us our lunches. They bring Jasper his first, and as soon as I hear them set it down in front of him, he starts laughing. When they bring me mine, I understand why.

_Ah, it's chocolate pudding day._

Unfortunately, that also means it's soup day. True to form, by the time I've reached the bottom of the bowl, I've managed to spill not one, not two, but _three_ spoonfuls of tomato soup down the front of my gown. I eye the pudding warily, just knowing that there's an excellent chance some of that might end up in my lap as well.

In the room next to me, I hear Jasper's spoon scraping against the bottom of his pudding cup as he digs for every last scoop of it.

"Simply divine," he says, laughing as he finishes his last bite.

"You want mine?" I joke. "I could bring it right over."

The atmosphere in our rooms shifts abruptly.

"_Don't you even fucking think about it,"_ he hisses darkly, his voice suddenly and inexplicably devoid of its earlier brightness.

At first I think he's kidding. I actually laugh at him, I'm _that_ sure that he's just teasing me. 'Cause really, what on earth does he have to be so angry about? It was only a joke, after all. But when his room remains tensely silent, I realize that he's one-hundred-percent, completely serious. He's absolutely _livid_ that I suggested going anywhere closer to him than I already am.

_Well… okay then._

I bring my spoon down slowly and rest it on my tray without a sound. My face flushes red and my jaw clenches tightly in embarrassment, confusion, and concern. Again, the silence in our two rooms is deafening, choking. I stare down at my tray and try to remember how to breathe.

"I'm sorry," I finally hear him say, his voice gentle and soft, "Alice, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that. It's just that—you have to know. You have to understand that you can't ever come near me. It has nothing to do with you. It's just, I can't… You can't ever see me… like this. I need for you to understand that, and to promise me that it won't ever happen."

"Yeah okay," I whisper immediately, without thinking, still reeling from the shock of his outburst, "I promise."

Neither of us speaks for a minute as his words play over and over again in my mind. And as I listen to them, I grow frustrated, just as I'd done earlier in the morning. _"It has nothing to do with you,"_ he'd said. But that's just the problem. If it _was_ me—if he were so outraged by my suggestion because I'm annoying, or because I'm practically a stranger to him, or because he just plain doesn't like me, well, that would be something I could understand.

But _it's not me_. It's just his ridiculous desire to suffer in silence—to try and bear the weight of everything he's been through on his own. That's why he sent his parents and his friends away, and that's why he's keeping me as far away as possible. And it just makes me so _angry_, because if he'd just talk to me, if he'd just let me listen, maybe it would do him some good.

But I suppose I only have myself to blame, because, after all, I'm the one who set this standard. Last night, when he'd asked me about my dreams, I'd told him I didn't want to talk about it. I'd let our superficial conversation about appearance and tastes take the place of the conversation I'd really freaking _needed_ to have with someone about how lost and alone and helpless I feel. So I suppose he's just following my lead.

And well, that's just fine, because if I'm leading this dance, then I have the power to change the steps. I take a deep breath and steel myself for what I'm about to do.

"Both my legs are broken," I say, so quietly I can't even be sure he can hear me, "in several different places. I broke seven different ribs, two of which punctured one of my lungs, and one of which ruptured my spleen. I have a metal rod in my right arm, and a metal plate in my right hip. I have a total of two hundred and twenty eight stitches holding my skin together from all the places the surgeons had to cut into me to make me whole again. And when the paramedics found me, the gash on my head was so deep they could see all the way down through my skull."

I stop, taking in a shuddering breath to wait for his answer. After a few minutes of intolerable silence, I bow my head close to my chest and add,

"You see, Jasper, you're not the only one with scars."

*******

**JPOV**

_What the fuck was that?_

She'd listed her wounds like she was reading stats from the fucking sports page, not like she's actually living in a body that's been practically torn to shreds. And rather than make them sound less traumatic, her cool, detached delivery actually made her injuries sound more barbaric, more gruesome. By the time she reached the part about her head, I was shaking.

Some of it I'd already known. Her head, obviously—but I'd also figured there was something wrong with at least one of her feet, and possibly her chest from the way she sometimes groans when she moves. But from the way she talks, and jokes, and laughs with people, I'd never imagined her injuries were so _extensive_. There isn't a single fucking part of her that's not damaged.

But as bad as I feel for her, I still don't understand _why_ she suddenly told me all this. Again, it's not that I don't care. In a way, I'm _glad_ that she's told me, because that's just one more piece of her puzzle that I can finally fill in. But the fact that her declaration came as a response to my necessarily but regrettably harsh demand that she keep the fuck out of my room… well, that's the part of all of this that's so damn confusing. I'm not keeping her away because she's broken—I'm keeping her away because _I _am.

A hear a knock at her door as the nurse enters her room to remove her lunch tray.

"Alice, dear," she chides, "you didn't finish your lunch." When Alice doesn't answer, she continues. "What's wrong, dear? You look worn out."

I close my eyes and grimace, knowing that I'm at least partially to blame for however it is that she looks.

"I'm fine," Alice replies, her voice suddenly sounding small, tight, fragile--_how she sounds after she's been crying._ "I didn't get much sleep last night. I'm a little tired, that's all."

"Well," the nurse says, "try to get some rest this afternoon then. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours."

I hear the nurse leave, and seconds later she's in my room, clearing my tray. As she picks it up, she looks at me.

"You too," she says, all fucking concerned, "get some rest."

I glare at her, but nod. Anything to get her out of my room. As soon as she's gone, I take a deep breath and turn my head towards the wall.

"Hey," I say, my voice full of apology, "I'm really sorry Alice. All that shit—I didn't know. I'm sorry all that happened to you."

It's not my most eloquent moment ever, but honestly, I have no idea what else to say. She remains quiet for a few seconds before finally sighing a deep, stuttering breath.

"I didn't tell you that because I wanted your _pity_ Jasper," she says, sardonically, as if the reason she _did_ tell me is fucking obvious. _Which it's fucking not_.

"Well, why then?" I ask, definitely annoyed, "Why _did_ you tell me?"

"I told you because I wanted you to realize that you're not the only one who's hurting here. You're not the only one who has pain to deal with. You're not the only one who's suffering."

I narrow my eyes and stare at the blank wall in front of me, livid with anger. I mean, she's basically just told me that I'm a selfish prick, and that I should be fucking thankful that—that _what_? That I'm not lying dead in a ditch somewhere? That the flames only destroyed seventy percent of my body? That the smoke inhalation only damaged one of my lungs? That the fire left my eyes unscarred so I can see the sadness and horror in the faces of all those who look at me?

What fucking right does she have to give me a lecture on selfishness?

"Well, shit, Alice," I practically spit at her, "If I wanted a guilt trip, I could have just called my parents. I don't need you for that."

This isn't why I started talking to her, so that I could feel more ashamed of myself than I already do. Obviously, whatever I may have thought she was like, however good a person I'd thought she was, I was wrong.

I pick up my remote to turn my television back on, but before I can hit the button, her voice interrupts me.

"What I told you, Jasper, it wasn't an accusation—it was an _admission_. So you can know you're not alone, or at least, that you don't have to be."

_What the hell does she mean by that?_

And then it hits me with all the gentle force of a hammer striking a fucking nail: she's telling me she _trusts_ me, and showing me that I can trust her as well. She told me about her wounds so that, if I want to, I can tell her about mine too.

And for one selfish moment, I do really fucking want to. I want to tell her about the pain and the shame and the fear. More than that, I want her to _see_ it—I want her to come into my room and see what I am—I want her to see the scars and the bandages and all the places where my skin's been melted away. And I want her to hold me while I sob into her shoulder. I want her to tell me it's okay, and even though it's not, I want to _believe _her.

But these are fantasies, and as quickly as I think them, I force them back down into whatever fucking delusional part of my mind they came from. Because the reality is that, though I breathe and eat and sleep, everything good within me died in that fire. And Alice has nothing to gain from knowing my corpse.

"I'm sorry Alice," I sigh, defeated, "I don't think… I don't think I can--"

"You don't have to tell me anything," she says, her voice comforting, "I just wanted to let you know it would be okay if you ever _did_. If you ever want to… I'm here."

The sincerity of emotion in her voice washes over me like a fucking tidal wave, and suddenly I feel the most intense guilt I think I've ever felt in my life. Twice today I've yelled at her, twice today I've misjudged her, twice today I've acted like a complete and total dick. And both times, my irrational anger was in response to her attempts to comfort me.

"Alice," I groan, "I'm such an ass. I'm so sorry for how I've acted. I—"

"Don't worry about it," she cuts me off. "In a weird way, I'm kind of new to this whole 'conversation' thing. I'm sure I made a few mistakes myself. Still friends?"

_What on earth have I done to deserve to know her?_

"Still friends," I sigh.

"Great!" she chirps, her voice instantly brighter, "'Cause I have no idea what I'm going to do with all these books if I don't have you around to explain them to me."

We spend the rest of the afternoon just talking about normal shit like books and music and television. Things are understandably awkward at first, but by the time our dinner comes at night, we've settled into a peaceful and comfortable routine. For the briefest of moments, I almost forget where I am.

Of course, hospitals are pretty fucking relentless about reminding you where you are, and at 6:00 on the nose, my door opens and a nurse comes in with new bandages.

"Don't turn on the TV," I hear Alice whisper through the wall, so low that the nurse can't hear it.

"Alice," I whisper back, my voice trembling slightly with both regret and apprehension, "I have to."

I really hate saying no to her, but this is something she absolutely does not have to hear. I can shield her from this, I can protect her from this, and so I will. Without waiting for her reply, I press the "on" button and send the volume up as high as it will go.

It's grueling, and it's excruciating, and it takes for-fucking-ever. And the worst part is that the whole time, I can't stop thinking about Alice. Every time the nurse touches another part of my body, I think of the corresponding injury Alice has on hers. And though of course I know that the pain of a burn is completely different from the pain of broken bones, I feel an intense anger growing within me when I think of her having to feel something even remotely similar to what I'm going through.

The nurse finally finishes with me, and I wait until I can open my mouth without screaming before turning down the volume on my television. Unlike this morning, Alice speaks as soon as the room goes silent.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her voice quivering oddly.

"I'm fine," I answer automatically, though I can tell from the strain in my voice that this assertion wouldn't fool a fucking child.

"You sure don't _sound _fine," she says sarcastically. I smile despite myself when I recognize my words from last night. This girl sure loves to quote me. I'd better be careful or pretty soon she's going to start cursing like a fucking sailor.

"Honestly," I say, my voice already sounding better because of my smile, "I'll be fine in a few minutes."

My eyes narrow as I remember the question that I decided I needed to ask her while I was getting my bandages changed. I know I have no fucking right to ask her, but even just _thinking_ about her list of injuries again pisses me off to the extreme. So I just have to know.

"Alice," I start tentatively, "will you tell me what happened to you?"

We sit in silence for a few minutes while she contemplates my question.

"Oh, you mean the accident?" she finally asks, sounding a little confused, "Don't you already know? It was all over the news."

Actually, I don't know. Because she was right about that stupid newspaper I get every morning—I flip right to the sports page and the comics. And there are far better things to watch on television than people in suits sitting behind a desk and talking. All I know is what the policeman said when he'd come with the bracelet—that there was some kind of accident, and that there weren't many survivors.

"No," I tell her, "I have no idea. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's just a question."

_Please, please tell me._

"No, it's okay," she says, and to my relief, her voice doesn't sound either angry or annoyed. She just sounds like herself. "I just thought you already knew. I don't remember it, of course, but I can tell you what the officers told me. I was on a bus. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit us. She was in, you know, one of those big cars…" she trails off, trying to find the right word.

"A Suburban?" I supply, vaguely remembering hearing something about this now that she's started telling me.

"Yeah, that. Well, she crashed into us from the side and I guess the bus started spinning around and flipping over. And somewhere in all of that, a couple of us got thrown out. I hit a trashcan on the street head-first… I was pretty lucky I guess."

"Lucky?" I ask, incredulously, "You call that _lucky_?"

"Well, yeah. Only five people survived. There was some sort of explosion or something. I guess it was the engine. But everything caught on fire, and a lot of people were trapped. The five of us that got thrown from the bus—we're the only ones who lived."

People say that the invention of fire was crucial to the survival of mankind. Well, I'm beginning to accumulate a pretty fucking extensive list of people who would say we would've been better off without it.

"You wanna know the best part?" Alice asks, suddenly. And from the new, venomous tone in her voice, I can tell that this isn't going to be the best part at all. "That driver—the one who was so drunk that she couldn't tell red from green? Yeah, she walked away without a scratch."

I'm so angered by the thought of that stupid bitch being able to walk away unscathed, that without even thinking, I hiss, "I hope she fucking rots in hell."

Much to my surprise, Alice responds with a quiet, but deliberate "Me too."

I understand her anger, obviously. But I don't think I've ever heard her sound so vicious before, and, quite frankly, I'm a little terrified. I didn't think she was capable of that. But then I realize, that if I'd had to sacrifice my past in order to pay the price of my future, I might be a little fucking bitter too.

Of course, because she's Alice, that's not what bothers her about the situation at all.

"Not for me," she says, softly. "What happened to me—it sucks, sure. But it's nothing compared to what others had to go through. Thirty-seven people lost their lives. Thirty-seven mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, and friends all gone because of one moment of stupidity. _That's_ why I hope that woman suffers. Because the suffering for the families of those she killed… that suffering will never end."

I shouldn't be surprised at her selflessness, really. I should expect that from her by now. But every time she sees a mother with her child, every time she sees friends together, every time she sees brothers and sisters playing with each other, she must feel the weight of everything she's lost. And I find it really fucking hard to believe that she doesn't feel at all bitter about the things that have been taken from _her_.

So I decide to ask her another ridiculously inappropriate question figuring that, since I've already allowed asshole-Jasper to call most of the shots today, it's pretty fucking useless to try and stop him now.

"Do you ever regret it—surviving, I'm mean. Surviving even though you can't remember anything?"

We sit in silence again as she thinks about my question. I'm actually rather glad it takes her so long to come up with an answer. Saying "yes" to such a question immediately would be a lie. No sane person could go through what she has and come out the other side unequivocally grateful for life.

"No," she finally says. "I did though, in the beginning. When I woke up, everything was just miserable, and I couldn't remember anything _but_ misery, so I thought that was all there was to life. But things have changed since then. I've met some good, kind people since I've been here, and I've learned about happiness, and family, and…" she pauses, again searching for a word. "… friendship," she adds hastily. "I've experienced some of those already—and the others, the things I haven't… well, at least now I have a chance to. So no, I don't regret surviving. Not anymore."

I nod to myself. That's a fair answer. And I'm grateful to whomever she's met in this god-awful place that has made her believe in life again. Because, even in the short time that I've known her, I've come to realize that hers would be a terrible life to waste.

"What about you?' she asks timidly, "do you ever regret being alive?"

If she had asked me that question five weeks ago, the answer would have been 'yes.' Unquestionably. Unlike Alice, I remember a time before my pain, and even my happiest memories—they're not enough to justify or cancel out the things I've been through. Not to mention the things I still have _yet _to go through. When I first woke up in this hospital, screaming in pain because my mother had tried to touch me, life just… didn't seem worth it anymore.

But now… now, I don't know. Which is definitely not the same as saying that life is suddenly all fucking sunshine and rainbows. Because it's definitely fucking not. The pain is still there—it will _always _be there—for the rest of my life. But when I think back on today and remember how fucking normal and happy I've felt during parts of it, I can't help but question whether life really isn't so unbearably shitty after all. And that little bit of doubt… it might just be worth exploring.

"No," I say, leaning my head back against our wall and smiling slightly, "not anymore."


	6. Follow Through

**A/N: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Chapter Five: _Follow Through_

"_I wanted you to see what real courage is… It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do." ~Harper Lee, __To Kill a Mockingbird_

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**JPOV**

I remember when time was measured in pain—when 'morning' meant the hour when pain started, and 'evening' meant the hour when everything faded into darkness. Everything in-between those two distinctions was ripping and screaming and tearing and burning—all pounding away at me like the relentless ticking of a clock.

That was _every_ day before Alice.

Now I measure time in laughter, invisible smiles, and words. My parents used to think there was something wrong with me when I was growing up because I rarely ever spoke unless someone asked me a direct question—and even then I would only use exactly as many words as was necessary. If only they could hear me now… In these past three weeks, I've probably used more words than I have in the entire rest of my life combined.

And it's been worth it, because the more I talk, the more I get to _listen_ to her. And the more I listen, the more I learn, the more I _like_ her. What was once respect has now evolved into a deep and profound admiration and awe. I find myself waking up earlier and earlier every morning, going to sleep later and later each night, just so I can spend more time with her.

It's not that she takes the pain away. She doesn't—it would be ludicrous to assume that mere conversation could accomplish what medicine and drugs cannot. But she _does_ make me forget it. There are actually times now when I'll suddenly realize that both of my arms have been moving, gesturing while I'm talking—like any normal person might do to emphasize a point. Or times when she does something fucking ridiculously cute like mispronounce a word, and I find that I'm laughing before I even remember that laughing is supposed to hurt. It's just little things like that make all this shit bearable.

And the best part? The _absolute_ best fucking part about this whole thing is that I know that somehow, I'm helping her too. _She _doesn't know it yet, or at least, if she does, she hasn't said anything. But the more we talk, the more information I give her about the things she probably once knew but now has to re-learn, _the more she remembers_.

It started off really small. I was telling her about visiting the Chase Tower in Texas when I was a kid, and how I was scared to go all the way to the top floor because I was afraid of heights. I was already preparing to defend my childhood acrophobia to her, but instead of teasing me, she asked me a question that made my heart skip a beat.

"That building, is it as big as the other ones? You know, in New York? The ones the planes hit?"

I fucking froze, because I'd never told her about that. No one had. Her doctors and nurses kept discussions of general global matters relatively simple with her, and she hardly ever watched the news (not that September 11th is a fucking breaking story nowadays anyway), so I was relatively certain that this was something she hadn't "re-learned" yet. Still, I had to be certain.

"You mean on 9/11?" I asked, carefully.

"Nine eleven… is that like, an address or something?" she asked.

And that fucking sealed it: _She'd had a memory_.

It was short, and she didn't understand it, but it was there. I didn't say anything about it. Instead, I just went on with my story about the Chase building (which I did eventually get fucking laughed at for), because I didn't want to get her hopes up. If I made her think she was recovering and it all came to nothing… that'd make me more of a monster than I already am.

But as for _my_ hopes… well, they were already sky-high, and from that moment, there was no bringing them back down. I started paying extremely close attention to everything she said, and the more I listened, the more I recognized hints and whispers of memories making their way into her speech.

They were all little things—nothing to indicate that she had any idea of who she was or who might be looking for her—but they were definitely there: song titles, names of celebrities, major landmarks. And once, when I'd asked her what her favorite food was, she'd told me that it was lasagna, which is something she definitely had to have remembered. Because at _Chalet Temple University Hospital_, lasagna's not on the fucking menu.

I've been keeping all these things to myself, hoping that the more we talk, the more things will come back to her. In truth, I guess I'm really kind of hoping for a huge dramatic moment when she just fucking… _remembers. Everything. _But from what I know about amnesia, it doesn't fucking happen like that.

And if she's going to have to get back her memory one sentence, one fragment at a time, I'm not going to let her worry and obsess over every little detail of her past while she should be concentrating on her recovery and her future. So, barring some major significant development in the types of things she remembers, I'll do all the worrying for both of us. 'Cause I know if it were me, she'd do the same fucking thing.

In fact, she's already doing it, sort of. Tomorrow I'm scheduled to have the first of my fucking endless surgeries. Ever since Alice found out about it (thanks to a particularly loud-mouthed nurse), she's been begging the nurses to bring her copies of the fucking Merck Manual and every other fucking piece of literature she can get her hands on that deals with skin grafts. She just _devours_ that shit, and by this point, I'm pretty confident she could perform the surgery herself if they'd let her.

She says she does it because she's worried, and somehow, learning _more_ about the ins and outs of the procedure helps her to calm down. Every time I try to explain to her that they're just doing a graft on my arm and there's no need to get upset, she launches into a pretty fucking terrifying description of all the potential complications which, to be honest, I really do _not _need to know. So, though it bothers me to no end, I just let her worry knowing that, at least after tomorrow, it'll all be over and we can go back to normal.

Already today Alice has asked me four times if I'm scared for tomorrow, and four times I've told her I'm not. And it's true. I'm not at all. What I'm more afraid of is leaving her alone for a day. If our situations were reversed, I know I'd be fucking miserable. Because over the past few weeks, I've really grown to depend on her to get me through the day. And, though I know it might not be the same for her, I like to think that at least some part of her will regret the time we'll miss tomorrow. Even though I'll be out cold all day, I'm already really fucking upset about that lost time.

Fortunately, or unfortunately rather, she has other things than me to keep her occupied now. She got the casts on her feet off two weeks ago, and since then she's been going to physical therapy five times a week. I can tell from her voice when she gets back that it's both mentally and physically exhausting—having to learn how to walk again. That first day she went, when she came back in tears, I literally almost punched a hole in the fucking wall, I wanted to hold her so bad. Instead, I'd just let her sleep.

Her afternoon naps have been a part of our daily routine since then. And though I know it's all being done to help her recover, I can't help but feel slightly fucking resentful of her therapy because, including the time during which she sleeps, those are three fucking hours of each day that aren't filled with her voice.

_What a fucking waste_.

I've been staring, without seeing, at my television for the last hour, waiting for her to wake up from her nap. The time in-between her therapy and when she wakes up is the worst part of my whole fucking day. Even worse than when the nurses come into change my bandages. Because at least then I feel like I have some degree of control—the less I move, the less I squirm, the less it hurts. But waiting for her to wake up, and not being able to do anything for her… it's just fucking brutal.

Finally I hear a light tapping on our wall.

"Jasper?" Alice asks, her voice still groggy from sleep.

Hastily I turn off the TV and lean my head back against the wall.

"Hey kid," I say, trying, rather fucking poorly, to hide the agitation in my voice, "how are you?"

"Better," she says, though you wouldn't believe it from her voice. "You worried about your surgery yet?"

I can't help but roll my fucking eyes at her, even though I know she can't see it. Leave it to Alice to be concerned about me after what she's just been through.

"Nope," I say, "just about you."

"Don't be dumb, Jasper," she says, and from her tone, I can imagine her rolling her eyes at me as well, "I told you I'm fine. And guess what?"

"What?" I ask, relieved that her voice finally seems to be getting back some of its brightness.

"I walked ten feet today!" she boasts so sweetly that I can almost picture her little face beaming.

"Wow," I say, a proud smile breaking out across my face, "Congratulations. That calls for a celebration, I think."

She laughs. "All right then, what kind of celebration do you have in mind?"

"How about you choose what we do tonight?"

Usually, I'm the one who dictates our daily activities, mostly because no matter what we do, whether it's listening to music or watching TV or reading books, I always end up having to do a hell of a lot of explaining. Which isn't to say that it annoys me—it certainly doesn't. It's just, because I have a whole twenty years of human experience to pull from, it's usually easier for me to start and maintain a conversation than it is for her.

"Oh thank God," she says, sarcastically, "does that mean we don't have to read tonight?"

_Yeah, yeah. She can try to hide it all she likes, but I know she fucking loves reading my books._

She decides she wants to watch TV—which we do "together" by turning both our TVs to the same channel. It sounds like an innocent enough suggestion until she settles on watching some craptastic show about a group of women living in New York City, who, as best I can tell, spend all their money on clothes and condoms. But Alice seems really into it, especially the clothes part (she systematically ignores the whole 'sex' aspect of the show, thank fuck), so I just grin and bear it. 'Cause this is what I've been waiting for all day—this feeling of normalcy—and now that it's here, I'm just going to enjoy it while I can.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long.

When the (fucking fourth) episode (of the fucking _marathon _I've just had to watch) mercifully ends, and before I have time to suggest something else, the news comes on. I'm not even paying attention—instead I'm teasing Alice about liking such a terrible show—so it's only when I notice her lack of response that I turn my eyes and ears back to the television.

"_One of the five survivors of March's Philadelphia Transit bus crash has died today,"_ the reporter is saying, _"After a two-month-long battle, Jillian Shaw succumbed to the wounds she received upon being thrown from the bus after it was hit by a drunk driver on the evening of March 22nd. "_

As the reporter goes on to describe the accident, images from the scene flash on the screen.

_Holy fucking shit._

It's the first time I've really _seen_ it, though I somewhat remember watching the news the day it happened, not really registering what I saw. But now I see it in every gruesome fucking detail. The bus itself is flipped on its side—the same side that both doors are on, effectively trapping the victims inside. I can almost _hear_ their fucking screams. Everything around the bus is chaos—smoke fills the air like a deadly fog, and pieces of shoes, and blood-soaked clothing, and paper litter the streets.

And then I see something that makes my fucking heart stop. It's a picture of a paramedic carrying a small girl with long brown hair away from the accident scene. Her clothes are covered in ash and blood, her legs are swinging at sickeningly odd angles, and, from the way her face is pressed into the paramedic's chest, I can see a long, deep gash running down the right side of her head.

For several seconds, I have to work extremely hard to fight the urge to vomit.

I reach for the remote and shut the TV off, like, if I can just get it to stop making noise, I can stop Alice from having to see it. Of course, I have no control over her television, and from her room I can still hear the reporter talking about the woman who's just died.

"Alice," I whisper through the wall, "turn it off."

_Turn it off… turn it off… Jesus Christ, Alice, turn it off…_

I get no response, no indication that she's heard me. So I try again, louder.

"Alice, sweetheart, you have to turn it off now."

Still nothing. I begin to panic.

"Alice—turn the damn television off. _Please_. Stop watching."

When she doesn't answer again, I start to get really fucking terrified. Because this isn't like her. Ever since she told me about the accident and her wounds, she's never once hesitated to discuss anything with me, and she's _certainly_ never been _silent_. Something is very fucking wrong.

For the first time in two months she's completely locked within herself, and I don't fucking know how to get her out, how to make her talk to me again. 'Cause I know if I can just get her talking, then everything will be okay. But I don't know how. I have no fucking idea what to say.

_Except that I do._

When it hits me that I might actually know what I can do for her, I have to fight for the second time in less than ten minutes not to be sick. Because the one thing that might help her, the one thing that might make her respond to me—it's the one fucking thing I promised I'd never tell her. I promised I'd never let her in on my pain.

But when she'd told me about her accident before, she'd done it so I didn't have to feel like I was alone. And it had worked—knowing her pain, I didn't feel so isolated, so fucking abnormal anymore. And now, here she is, obviously feeling terribly lost in her own hurting, and if I can help her by telling her my story, what right do I have to keep it from her?

"Alice, do you want to know what happened to me?" I ask, my voice still shaking with fear for her. I get no answer, but I take a deep breath and continue anyway, because this is the only option. _This has to work._

"I was hiking near a lake and it was getting dark. So I found a campsite and set up for the night. I needed to plan out my route for the next morning, but I forgot my flashlight, so I was using matches to look at my map. I threw one of my matches into the fire circle without realizing that whoever was there before me had doused the whole fucking thing in lighter fluid.

"I don't remember the explosion, though I'm told there was one. All I remember is the smell. All of a sudden I could smell something burning. It took me a couple of seconds to figure out that it was me."

I pause, closing my eyes tightly, like just the act of blocking my vision can stop the memory from replaying in my mind.

"What did you do?" I hear Alice whisper—the television in her room suddenly having gone mute.

All the tension in my body relaxes as soon as I hear her voice. It's quiet, and trembling, and sounds really fucking small, like she can't get enough air in her to make a proper sound, but still, she's there. I fucking brought her back to me.

"I jumped in the lake," I continue, trying really hard to fight off the fucking inappropriate smile that's forming on my face. "It was dark, so pretty much everyone within a ten-mile radius saw the fire. The ambulance was there before my mind could really even understand what had happened.

"But I remember, coming out of the water, I looked down at my arm and saw my skin dripping off my body like wax. That's the first time I really thought that something might be wrong. That, and, despite the fact that my skin was literally smoking, I felt really fucking cold, like I might never be warm again."

I stop, suddenly realizing that I've told her too much. I was just trying to make _her_ forget about her fucking accident, not terrify her.

"Are you okay?" I finally ask, "I didn't mean to scare you. You were just so quiet, and I didn't know what to do. You scared the shit out of me, Alice."

"I'm sorry," she says, sincerely, "I'm okay now. Thank you—for telling me what happened to you. You didn't need to do that, you know."

"Don't be stupid," I scoff at her, "I didn't tell you 'cause I _had _to, I told you 'cause I _wanted_ to."

It's not a lie. I _had_ wanted to tell her. And not just because I knew it might bring her back to me. But because I really fucking wanted her to know. Part of me has wanted to tell her since the night she told me _her_ story, but I'd always reasoned my way out of it by telling myself how selfish it would be to let her share in my pain. And maybe it is selfish… but right now, I'm just glad I finally had a fucking reason to tell her, because somehow, just the fact that she _knows_, seems to make it slightly more bearable.

Neither of us mentions anything else about either my story or Alice's accident, 'cause we just don't fucking need to. We've said all that needs to be said.

And plus, we're both exhausted. So around 9:00, after we've had our dinner and my bandages have been changed, we say 'goodnight' and start trying to sleep. But about five minutes into the silence, I hear a little knock on our wall.

"Jasper," Alice says softly, "you didn't tell me where you're burned."

It's a question, not a statement.

I frown. This is another thing I've wanted to tell her for a while now, but unlike the story of _how_ I got burnt, the specifics of _where_ I'm burnt will allow her to picture me as I am—charred, bandaged, broken—in a little more detail than I'm really comfortable with. But I've already told her everything else… so…

_Fuck it._

"My left side was angled towards the fire, so that got the worst of it. Third-degree burns from my shoulder to my foot. My left hand—the one that flicked the match into the fire—that got the worst damage of all. I have other, less severe burns on my chest and back. I had a few first-degree burns on my neck too, but most of those are healed by now."

She contemplates this for a few minutes before asking, "what about your head?"

If it were anyone else asking the question, I'd probably she was a superficial bitch. But since I know Alice, her question doesn't offend me at all.

"I have a scar over my left eye from where I hit a rock when I jumped into the lake. But when the explosion happened, my face was bent over the map, so it was pretty much shielded from the flames. Some of my hair burnt off, but that's about it."

And then she laughs, which, _despite_ the fact that I know her seems pretty fucking offensive. That is, until she explains herself.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at _us_."

"Care to elaborate?" I ask, not quite convinced.

"Well, it's just that—we're hurt in the exact opposite places. You damaged your left side, and I damaged my right. Everywhere I'm broken, you're intact, and vice versa. Between the two of us, we might just make one complete person."

She doesn't say anything more, and within a few minutes, I can tell that she's asleep. But what she's said, it keeps me awake. Because it's truer than she even realizes—it's truer than I've been able to admit to myself until this very moment, though some part of me must have known it for a long time.

With Alice, I feel something I thought I'd never feel again: I feel whole.

*******

**APOV**

I wake up to an unusual sound of movement coming from Jasper's room. This is strange—though Jasper usually wakes up before me, he's careful never to make a sound until he knows for sure that I'm up too. I wonder what he's—

_Oh, __crap__. His surgery's today._

I bury my face in my pillow to muffle the groan that escapes from my lips. This is, without a doubt, going to be the worst day of my life. Well, at least the two months of it that I remember.

"I'll be right back," I hear a nurse say as she opens Jasper's door, and seconds later, I hear a knock on our wall.

"It's still early—go back to sleep," he says.

_Yeah. As if that's even freaking possible._

"I'm not tired," I answer, even though as soon as I open my mouth, I have to stifle a yawn.

Through the wall I barely catch him mutter "…so damn stubborn…" before asking, "All right then, genius. It's 7:00 in the morning. You've got a long fucking day ahead of you now. What're you going to do?"

_Cry. Worry. Have a panic attack. Worry more. Ask the nurses for updates every ten minutes. Cry more._

"Ummm, I dunno. I'm sure I'll be able to find something," I say, aiming for sarcasm, but probably achieving something closer to regret. "Contrary to what you may think, my days don't _actually_ revolve solely around _you_ Jasper."

_Alice, you're a dirty, rotten liar._

And I am, because they do. It's sad, and pathetic, and probably not even healthy, but I don't care. Because, even though he may not feel as attached to me as I to him, there's no denying the fact that we just _get_ each other. I've even found myself wondering if I knew him before my accident, because somehow, we just _know_ how to respond to one another now. Talking with him, it's comfortable, it's easy, and it's the only thing about this whole messed-up situation I'm in that makes me feel like I'm not such a freak. And I crave that—I _live_ for that—and if living for normalcy is unhealthy, then whatever. It doesn't bother me to be sick.

"Yeah, yeah," Jasper responds, speaking sarcasm more fluently than I ever could, "I just hope you don't waste your fucking time today. Especially not after all that shitty show you made us watch last night. You should probably read a book as cure for all the stupidity you ingested yesterday."

I laugh, thinking it quite ironic that Jasper is lecturing _me_ on the dangers of crappy television. It's a stupid suggestion anyway—I already know that I won't be able to read _anything _today, except maybe the hospital's burn treatment and surgical manuals. But I decide to humor him anyway because, even though he thinks I don't know, I can tell he's nervous about this whole surgery thing—not because he thinks it might go badly, but because he's afraid of the increased pain he'll be in afterwards.

"Okay, oh Master of my Education," I say, determined to keep things light, "tell me what I should read then."

Jasper thinks about this for a minute before answering, "I'll give you something easy—a book of poetry. The Spoon River Anthology. It's good, you'll like it."

I smile to myself because he says that about _everything_ he has me read. And so far, books about the Civil War… well, they haven't really done it for me. But poetry… I _guess_ poetry sounds interesting.

I hear a few nurses enter his room again, and another jumble of movement and sound makes conversation between the two of us impossible. And then one of the nurses says the words that make my heart sink all the way down out of my chest.

"All right, Mr. Whitlock. We're just about ready to go here. I'll call the OR nurses down—they'll be here in a few minutes to take you up to surgery. You ready?"

He must nod 'yes' because seconds later the nurses leave the room and we're alone again.

I don't know what to say to him—but I know I should say _something_. Usually I don't have a problem with words—I've learned that I can talk about just about anything for extended periods of time, even if I sound like an idiot doing it. But right now… words just don't seem to be enough.

"Don't worry, Alice," he says before I even get the chance to speak, "I'll be fine. You just take care of yourself, and I'll be here tomorrow morning when you wake up."

Tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours. I wonder if a day has ever seemed so long to anyone before. And I know I really have nothing to be worried about. It's just a simple skin graft after all—not freaking open-heart surgery. But still, it hurts to think of him gone for so long, undergoing a procedure that will surely cause him more pain before it helps him get any better. And, after all, there's always the possibility of complications…

For, what I'm sure will only be the first time today, I feel my eyes well up with tears. I don't want him to go, but if he has to, I want to be able to go with him. It's not fair that I should have to be left behind.

I see the OR nurses pass by the door to my room, and so I know that I have to come up with something to say to him before he goes. And then I remember that I've made him promise me something before—a promise that he kept. So I settle on making him promise me something again.

"Come back," I say, pressing my palm against our wall and struggling to keep my voice steady despite my tears, "just… come back."

"I will," he replies, just as the nurses enter, his tone almost laughing at my overabundance of concern. Minutes later I see the OR nurses pass by again, this time obviously pushing his gurney, though of course I can't see him since the window is so high. And that's it. Now I'm alone.

The next two hours can be summed up in one word: fear. When the nurse brings me my breakfast I take one look at it and think I might be sick, so I send it away before she even has a chance to set it down in front of me.

After the food is gone, I slowly begin to unravel myself from the little ball I've curled into since Jasper left, and I do the only thing I can do—I reach for the Merck Manual and read about skin grafting for probably about the hundredth time in two weeks. Jasper's getting a full-thickness graft, which basically means that they're going to take skin and muscle from his right arm and attach it to the places in his left arm where the skin is missing. It all sounds very _Frankenstein_ to me, but at the same time, I must admit that I'm a little fascinated by it. I mean, they're basically using the good half of his body to repair the bad half; they're patching him together with pieces of himself.

Yeah, it's definitely weird that this kind of stuff doesn't gross me out. But it _doesn't_, and that's kind of the problem right there. Because I _know_ he'll be fine, I _know_ this will heal him, I _know_ that this is only the start of the things that will make him better. So why is it that I'm so afraid?

I close the gigantic book and turn to stare out my window. It's a gorgeous day, which I find kind of cruel actually. If I have to be so upset, then at least the weather could cooperate. How about a little rain? A thunderstorm would be even better. Hell, I'd even settle for clouds. But no, the sun is beating down against the newly-budded trees, a soft breeze is rustling the leaves on the branches, there's not a cloud in the freaking sky. It's all the perfect antonym for everything that's going on inside me. Peace, calm, quiet…

_Agitation, turbulence, fear_.

_Fear_. There it is again. What do I have to be scared about? It's going to be _fine_. It's just a simple cut and paste job. And besides, he _promised_. He promised me he'd come back. And he doesn't break his word, not with me. He's not going anywhere. He'll always be here. He's not going—

And then it hits me. I suddenly realize that, though I'll be able to wake up "with him" tomorrow, this won't always be the case. The doctors have already started talking about my discharge from the hospital And he—he'll be stuck here for months. What happens when I'm well enough to go, and he has to stay here? Will he push me away again? Will he want me anymore?

That's what his surgery today has me so upset about—this is just a taste of what it will be like if I lose him. Emptiness, uncertainty, _fear_. Because he keeps me grounded. He's like the missing link between my past and my future. He ties it all together. And if I lose him… what do I have to keep me from coming undone?

I curl up into a little ball again, but this position does nothing to smother the fear or the pain. I try to tell myself that I'm different from either his parents or his friends because I understand him in a way that they never can. And he _trusts_ me—he told me his story after all, even if it did take him three weeks and my nervous breakdown to get him to talk. But he opened up to me—he let me in. And certainly, now that he's opened that door, he won't close it again. Because, like I said, we just _get_ each other, and surely, _surely_ he knows how much he means to me, and like everything else, he'll just _get_ how impossible it would be for me to let him go.

Comforted slightly by this thought, I sit up and reach for the call button next to my bed so that I can ask one of the nurses if they've heard anything from Jasper's surgery yet. But after jamming the button down several times and getting no response, I finally give up and settle back against my pillows. Glancing at the digital clock next to my bed, I realize that I've only wasted four hours with my worrying so far, and I still have another twenty or so to go.

_Great. What do I do now?_

I remember Jasper's suggestion that I read, and so, despite the fact that I know I won't be able to concentrate on it very well, I find the Spoon River Anthology and begin reading. It takes me all of ten seconds to realize that there's no way in _hell_ I'm reading this—_especially_ not today. Every poem in the book is an epitaph—that stupid boy told me to read a book about _dead people_. What kind of ridiculously sick joke is that?

I throw the book down on my bed in disgust, but when I do, I notice that one of the pages comes loose from the binding. _Great, I've ruined his book now. Could this day possibly get any worse?_ But when I try to shove the page back where it belongs, I realize that it doesn't _belong_ _there_ at all. It's not a sheet from the book—it's a picture.

I stare at the back of the photo for a minute, wondering how horrible it would be for me to look at it. Two thoughts cross my mind—either he suggested that I read the book because he knew the picture was in there and he wanted me to see it, or he has no idea the picture is in here and, by looking at it, I'd be betraying his trust in me.

But then I remember that he's seen _me_—on the TV last night, though my face was turned away from the camera, that was _definitely_ _me_ being carried by that paramedic. So it's only fair that I see him as well. And besides… he never has to know…

I remove the picture from the book carefully and flip it over.

Immediately, any guilt I have disappears. There are two people in the picture, neither of whom looks even remotely like the Jasper I've imagined in my mind. The man in the photograph is tall, sure, but his hair is dark, and his body, though obviously toned and muscular, is _huge_. He looks like she should be playing football or rugby or some other contact-based sport. There's no way that the soft, tenor voice that speaks to me through the wall comes from within a body like that.

The other person in the picture, the one the man has his arm around, is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's tall, and blonde, and has a body that's far more perfectly proportioned than any of the supposedly beautiful actresses I've seen on TV. She's absolutely gorgeous, and for a moment, I find myself almost unbearably jealous of her. I'll _never_ look like that. I'll never even come close.

I push these thoughts away as I examine the picture more closely, trying to figure out why Jasper might have this particular photograph stashed away in one of his books. A thousand thoughts cross my mind at once—maybe he's in love with the girl, maybe it's his sister or brother, or maybe they're just his friends. Of course, I did find the photograph in a book dedicated exclusively to the subject of death, so maybe…

I shove the picture back into the book and toss them both to the floor, out of reach. I can't think about it anymore. If he's had some other traumatic event happen to him, I don't want to know about it. The fire—that's enough for a lifetime.

I refuse the nurse again when she comes in to offer me lunch. I have no stomach for it.

"Maybe you should skip your PT this afternoon" she suggests when she looks at my face.

"No," I reply immediately, "No, I'm definitely doing my therapy." I _have_ to get out of this room before I go crazy with grief and fear and worry. "Have you heard anything about Jasper?" I ask her hopefully.

"Mr. Whitlock?" she questions. "No, I believe he's still in surgery, but I'll check for you."

"Thanks," I say, "By the way, I think something's wrong with my call button. I tried using it this morning, but no one answered."

"Oh dear," the nurse says, suddenly concerned, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Were you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say, suddenly embarrassed, "I was just trying to see how Jasper's surgery was going."

Her concern turns to a frown as she pushes the button next to my bed futilely.

"These buttons are for _emergencies_," she reminds me, "not to make personal calls." I blush scarlet at her accusation. "It's definitely broken though," she says, moving towards the door, "I'll put in a work order."

About an hour later the same nurse returns, _without_ any further news about Jasper, I might add, to take me to physical therapy. And though I'm annoyed that I still don't know anything about his condition, I'm thankful for this distraction.

'Distraction,' really, is an inappropriate euphemism for physical therapy. 'Frustration' or 'pain in the ass' would work far better. But today, I'm grateful for it, whatever it is, because all the crap going on inside of me, I just release it all into the tedious work of the therapy. I release my anger into the leg weights, I release my fear into the dumbbell lifts I have to do for my arm, and I release all my worry into my feet as I struggle to keep my balance when the therapist lets go of me and tells me to walk on my own. I walk fifteen feet today—a new record. And at least now I'll have something to tell Jasper about when he comes back.

Like always, as soon as I'm back in my room, I collapse in my bed and fall into a deep sleep. Before today, I've always hated this particular side effect of the therapy, because it's a whole wasted hour when I don't get to talk to _him_. But today I'm happy for it, because when I wake up, that'll be one hour closer to the time I get to hear him again.

Actually, it turns out to be _two_ hours closer. The sleep I missed this morning combined with my lack of appetite and hard work during the afternoon catch up with me finally, so by the time I open my eyes, the nurse is just bringing in my dinner. I stare at it warily, not really knowing if I can stomach it yet. The nurse sets it down in front of me anyway.

"Mr. Whitlock's surgery went fine, Alice," she says, a knowing smile playing on her lips, "You can eat now."

"It did!?" I squeal, practically knocking over my food in my excitement. "He's okay? Is he awake?"

"Of course it did," she replies, "he's completely fine. He hasn't woken up yet—he's still in Recovery. They'll monitor him for a few hours before they bring him down here, and even then he probably won't wake up for awhile. But I assure you, everything went fine. Now," she says, handing me a fork, "eat."

That news is all I need to hear for my delinquent appetite to make a sudden reappearance. I'm ravenous. I consume everything in front of me in minutes, and, when the nurse brings me more food to make up for the meals I missed in the morning, I eat all of that too.

_He's okay_, I think to myself as I eat, _he's coming back. Nothing has taken him away from me. Not yet…_

_Not yet_.

It's the tiny but insistently annoying part of my brain that is still trying to alert me to the danger that all of this could end. That's still trying to tell me that instead of being my first memory of happiness, Jasper could become my first memory of loss. _Not yet. You haven't lost everything… yet._

I shake my head to clear it of that idea, and tell myself again that I'm being stupid for even thinking it. It didn't happen today, and it won't happen. Ever. Nothing is over. Nothing will end. We'll both be fine. We have to be.

Four hours later, as if in confirmation of the second, more rational voice in my head, I see the OR nurses pass by my door pushing a gurney, and seconds later hear them enter Jasper's room. I literally bounce with excitement as I wait for them to leave, and as soon as I hear his door close again, I turn and rap my knuckles against our wall.

"Jasper?"

Nothing. I press my head against the wall and hear the sound of his slow, methodical breathing. He must still be asleep.

And that's fine, because he's already kept his promise. He's come back. And in the morning, when I wake up, I know he'll be here, like always. It's been a pretty craptastic day. But tomorrow… tomorrow will be better.

I flick off the lights and rest my head against the pillow, anxious for tomorrow to come.

-----

Except that it doesn't. It's still nighttime when I wake up with the unshakable and undeniable feeling that something is terribly wrong. I shoot straight up in bed listening carefully for a repetition of whatever noise or movement that has woken me from my sleep. I hear nothing.

Until I hear _it_. A low, animalistic sound that is a groan, a hiss, a snarl, and a cry all at once. It's terrifying and unnatural—completely unlike anything I've ever heard before. But unfortunately, I recognize immediately the voice in which it is uttered.

_Jasper_.

Without even thinking, I swing my legs to the side of my bed so that I can press my face flat against our wall. I can hear his shuddering breaths, his frenzied movements, his quiet sobbing… A deep and violent trembling begins rising with me, so that I can hardly keep myself upright anymore. _This is pain. This is his pain_.

"I'll get someone, Japser," I whisper, unsure even that he can hear me through his groans. I reach over and press the button next to my bed and wait for someone to come. But they never do. So I begin pounding the button with my fists, tears streaming down my face, wondering why it's taking so long for people to realize that there's something wrong. It's only after about a minute of this that I remember that my call button is broken.

Another horrific sound breaks from Jasper's lips, and for a moment, I feel so helpless and useless that I want to scream. But obviously, if the nurses can't hear the noise Jasper's making, screaming won't do him any good either. So I concentrate on what I _can_ do to help him, and as soon as I realize what that is, I lower both my feet onto the floor.

My legs are shaking, both from exhaustion and fear. My hip is screaming in protest—trying to tell me that we've already been _through_ this once today, and that it has no strength to do it again so soon. And worse even than these physical reminders of how stupid what I'm doing is, I hear Jasper's voice in my head: _"Don't you even fucking think about it… you can't ever come near me_."

But at the same time as these words are echoing in my head, I hear the more potent, terrible sounds that are currently coming from his room. If he wants to hate me for what I'm about to do, well, I suppose that's a price I'll have to pay. But if he thinks I'm just going to sit here and listen to him suffer when there might be something I can do to help… well… in his words— _fuck that._

I hug the wall as I move gingerly towards my door. When I step out into the hallway, I glance to my left and right to see if there are any nurses wandering the ward. Of course, since today has been one endless bout of crappy luck for me, the hallways are empty. So I make my way to Jasper's door, each step more hesitant and unstable than the last.

_Please, feet_, I think, _don't give out on me. Just give me a few more steps, please. Just a few more_.

They do; I make it. I reach Jasper's door. And even from outside, even from the hallway, I can still hear that he's in pain—and that knowledge drives me forward. Without hesitating, I push open his door and step inside.


	7. Trying to Say

**A/N: Stephenie Meyer owns ****Twilight**** and all its characters.**

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Chapter Six: _Trying to Say_

"_That was when I learned that words are no good; that words dont ever fit what they are trying to say at… and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words."   
~William Faulkner, __As I Lay Dying_

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**APOV**

A beam of light pierces against the far wall of Jasper's room, illuminating nothing but the bathroom and that damn television. As quickly as I can, I shuffle through the gap in the doorway and close the door behind me; which proves to be a huge mistake since as soon as the door is shut, I can't see a freaking thing. The blinds over the window and the door are shut completely, and apart from the faint green glow of the heart rate monitor, the whole room is immersed in darkness.

I fumble on the wall behind me, trying to find the light switch, but before I can locate it, I hear Jasper's strained voice.

"_What… fuck… Alice?_" he hisses.

"Jasper," I say, my voice barely audible above his gasping moans, "hang on, I'm going to get someone to help you."

Whether it's nerves or just general ineptitude, I can't for the life of me find that stupid light switch, so I give up and make my way towards the sound of his labored breathing, knowing that if I can reach his bed, I'll be able to find his call button. Whether the stupid button'll work or not… well, I guess that's a different issue entirely.

But I never get a chance to find out, 'cause as soon as I near his bedside, he speaks again.

"_Don't,_" he warns.

_You've got to be kidding me._

"Don't? Jasper, there's something seriously wrong. You could have an infection. Or you could be rejecting the graft. Or—"

"_No… pain… it's all over… painkillers…_"

I stare at him, or at least I _think_ I'm staring at him, trying to figure out what he's saying. If the pain's not just in his arms, if it's all over his body, then there must be something wrong with his morphine drip. Which is on the other side of the freaking bed.

_Great_.

I grip the railing of Jasper's bed for support and make my way cautiously around to his right side. I finally reach his IV, which is glowing faintly in the light of the machines that surround it. Nothing looks noticably wrong. The bag looks full, and I can just make out the shape of the tube where it connects to his arm. So what's the problem here? Not enough drug? Wrong kind?

_Screw this—I'm no doctor. I'm getting a nurse_.

But as I begin to make the long trip back to the other side of the bed, I kick something with my foot. As soon as I bend down and pick it up in my hands, I suddenly realize why Jasper's in so much pain.

"Here," I say, placing the plastic box that allows him to control how much of the drug he's getting carefully on the edge of his bed. I hear him take it quickly, and press the little button several times in succession.

Once I'm confident he's back in control of the situation, I back away from him, fumble around in the darkness until I find a chair, and sink into it wearily.

Slowly, _painfully_ slowly, Jasper's heavy breathing begins to resume a normal rhythm.

"_Thanks_," he whispers curtly. From the venomous tone in his voice, he might as well have added, "_now get the hell out_."

Well, if he wants to play that game, then fine. I've prepared myself for the possibility that he'll be angry with me for coming into his room—that's a price I already agreed to pay. But there's absolutely _no _way that I'm leaving here before I'm one hundred percent certain that he's okay, whether he likes it or not. And besides, I'm pretty sure that I'd fall on my face if I tried to make it back to my room right now, and I'm really not in any hurry to put that theory to the test. So for now, I'm staying put.

"You can't be in here," he points out, his voice still severe.

_Well, at least he's speaking in complete sentences again_.

"In case you haven't noticed," I say, anger and frustration finally beginning to take the place of my fear and worry, "all the nurses in this stupid hospital seem to be on some kind of group break. I highly doubt anyone's going to find me."

"That's not what I mean and you _know_ it, Alice. I don't _want_ you in here. You need to leave."

At any other time, in any other situation, for any other reason, these words, from his mouth, would have absolutely driven me to tears. But right now… right now I have a sudden and frightening urge to stand up and slap him across the face. Does he have any idea what I've gone through to _get _here? And now he's telling me I have to _leave_?

"If you'd've just pushed your stupid call button Jasper, none of this would have happened," I hiss at him. "Why do you have to be so damn stubborn?"

"I couldn't fucking _move_, Alice," he spits back, with an equal measure of rage, "And while we're on the subject, why didn't you just push _yours_ if you were so concerned? I mean, it's hardly worth the fucking trip for you. Unless, of course, you've just been waiting all this time for an excuse to come over here and stare at me. Well, now you're here. Go on—take a good look."

I inhale sharply as the force of his words cuts into me like a knife. They hurt so much that I find myself involuntarily clutching at my chest, like I can somehow stop his words from reaching my heart and breaking it in two. But it's too late; the damage is already done. I lower my head and close my eyes.

"Is that really why you think I'm here?" I ask quietly.

"I don't know _what_ to think!" he shouts, his voice still incensed.

"I can't even see you," I tell him, honestly, "it's too dark. And even if I could, I'd never stare at you. I only came because you were in pain, and no one else could hear you. It was the only thing I knew how to do—"

My voice breaks off as the emotions of the past twenty minutes finally catch up with me, and the inevitable tears begin to roll down my cheeks in a strange mixture of relief and fear and frustration and pain and exhaustion. I bite my lip to keep my crying silent, but the enormous amount of energy my mind expends in trying to keep quiet gets released through the violent shaking of my body. And so, despite all my efforts, it isn't long before Jasper figures out what's going on.

"You're crying," he states, sounding a little shocked.

_Well, yeah… what did you expect?_

"Stop," he pleads, his voice suddenly without all of its prior malice. "Please, Alice, I'm sorry. That was the pain and the drugs talking. I didn't understand. When I saw you come in here, I just… oh, God, Alice, I'm sorry. Please don't cry."

But it's not that easy. Because ending the tears would mean that I'm okay with everything that's just happened—that I've dealt with it and accepted it—and I'm really in no condition to reach that point yet. So even though I accept his apology the moment he makes it, I can't help but get a few more things off my chest.

"You _scared _me Jasper," I whimper through my sobs, "I didn't know what was wrong and I couldn't get that stupid button to work, and you wouldn't tell me what to do, and, and—you idiot, don't you _ever_ do that again."

"I won't," he says, still remorseful, "I promise I won't."

And like it always does, his promise makes me feel slightly better. But I'm not through with him yet—after all, this guy has caused me serious amounts of grief today.

"And don't you ever accuse me of wanting to stare at you either. You _know_ I'm not like that. You know that's the furthest thing from my mind."

"I know," he mumbles, "like I said, it was the painkillers talking."

But this answer, it's not quite as convincing as his first.

"Maybe that's partially true," I tell him, my tears finally beginning to subside, "But part of you believed it too. Part of you _still_ believes it. And you have to understand it isn't like that—not for me."

Jasper sighs, and I hear him shift his weight on the bed.

"That's not it, Alice. I know you'd never think that; I know you don't care about what I look like or how badly I... I'm… But _I _care. It's something _I_ don't want to see."

Instinctively, I look up towards the sound of his voice and furrow my brow, confused by his syntax.

"What do you mean, 'something _you_ don't want to see'?" I ask.

There's a long pause while Jasper thinks of a way to explain himself. Finally, he answers my question with one of his own.

"Have you looked in a mirror, Alice? Since your accident. And I don't mean catching a glimpse of yourself in the window, or seeing your reflection in the television screen. I mean, have you stood in front of a mirror and _really_ looked at yourself _once_ since you've been here?"

I don't even have to think about the question to know the answer. The truth is, I haven't. And it's not like I haven't had the opportunity—there are mirrors all over this place—in my bathroom, in the physical therapy room, in the hallways. But I've been intentionally averting my eyes, purposefully putting it off, afraid of what I might see. The closest I've ever come was seeing the back of my body in that picture on TV, and that was more than enough for me.

"I didn't think so," Jasper continues, assuming the correct answer from my silence. "Neither have I. But it would be the same for me—seeing it in your face. It would be exactly like looking into a mirror. Because no one can hide it—even the doctors and nurses who deal with this shit every day—hell, even my own _parents_ couldn't hide it. Everyone's first reaction is the same: disgust. I already feel it myself, constantly. And it would kill me to have to see it in your eyes too."

I drop my gaze back down towards my lap, understanding all too well the feeling he's just described. In the weeks following my accident, I _hated_ meeting new people. It was like I was constantly on display, not only because of my physical scars, but also because of the thoroughness with which the accident had erased my memory. I was a mystery, an enigma: a _thing_ rather than a _human_. And it was terrible.

But as my body began to heal, as the physical reminders of my accident began to fade away, I found that I became less of an eccentricity. People stopped staring, stopped getting all tense and uneasy when I shared a space with them.

And that's when I learned that people can be cruel—that the unfortunate side effect of being able to see is the accompanying instinct to judge someone before you even get to know them. And while that's not such a problem for me anymore since, just by looking at me, no one can really tell that I'm different, it's something Jasper will have to live with for the rest of his life.

"You understand, don't you?" he asks gently. "You get what I'm trying to say."

"Yes," I whisper quietly, "I understand."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us physically and emotionally drained, exhausted.

Finally, Jasper inhales deeply, slowly, like he's been holding his breath under water, and he's just come up for air. I know that feeling—I've been not-breathing all day. And even though these past thirty minutes have been anything but relaxing, just being with him now, it's like my lungs have finally remembered how to work again.

"Alice," he says suddenly, like he's just remembered something, "How did you…? Did you _walk _here?"

For some reason that I don't really understand, my I feel the blood rush into my face, like helping him is something I should be embarrassed about. Which it's not. But having him _know_ what I went through to get to him… well…

"Holy shit, Alice," he says, again taking my lack of response as an affirmation, "that's a bit more than ten feet."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, instinctively reaching down to rub my hip. _Yeah, that's definitely gonna be sore tomorrow._

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Despite his concern, I can tell that his drugs are beginning to take their full effect—his voice is slurred and lethargic; he's starting to fall asleep.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "What about you?"

"Better… kinda tired…."

"Yeah, I can't imagine why that is," I say, sarcastically.

"Yeah… surgery… I—"

Moments later, his "sentence" is punctuated by a deep and guttural sound that seems better suited for a chainsaw than a human body. I have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud because, in all the nights that we've slept back-to-back against the same wall, I've never hear him snore.

_And I thought the teeth-grinding was bad._

Despite the fact that my legs are still shaky, I push myself out of my chair, knowing that I really shouldn't stay here any longer. Nothing has been resolved—from the conversation we've just had, I really have no idea how he feels about what I've done for him. For all I know, he could still be mad, even now that he knows I haven't actually seen him. But I'm obviously not going to get any answers out of him tonight, and I may as well try to get some sleep if I have to wait anyway.

But as I start towards the door, a thought crosses my mind. My eyes have adjusted enough to the light in the room that I can see the dim outlines of most of the objects that surround me. I can see the bed, the medical supply cabinets, the obligatory crash cart… and if I hold my hand directly in front of my face, I can just barely make out the shape of my fingers against the darkness. So if I can see _myself,_ then surely…

Slowly, and as soundlessly as possible, I move towards Jasper's bed.

_This isn't cheating_, I remind myself, even though part of me is outraged at what I'm about to do. _It's not like you're turning on the lights. It's not like you'll be able to see anything anyway. It'll be like you're looking at his shadow, and there's nothing wrong with that._

I pause before I take the step that will bring me next to Jasper's head, listening for any signs that he's awake. As if in response to my silent question, he lets out another deep, sonorous snore. And so I take a deep breath, and step forward.

At first I don't see anything—it's all too dark and indistinct. But as I stare down into the emptiness below me, a blurry profile begins to stand out against the dark.

I see his hair first, since its relative darkness contrasts strikingly with the pillow beneath it. It's still fairly short from when the doctors shaved it off, but already it is beginning to grow back in soft waves, which, because of the exertion of the last half hour, are all tangled and matted together. It takes pretty much all my will-power not to reach up and straighten it all out—not because its messiness bothers me, but because I suddenly have an almost irresistible urge to comb my fingers through his hair.

_Where did __that__ come from?_

I shake my head to clear it of its inappropriate thoughts, and continue to examine his face. As it becomes clearer, I begin to make out other features—the strong angle of his jaw, the gentle slanting of his nose, the full frown of his lips, which apparently remain locked in a permanent state of dissatisfaction, even in sleep. Each part of him is more extraordinary than the last. And when his eyes slowly come into a dim focus, well… Even _closed_ they're gorgeous.

It suddenly occurs to me that this is not the first time I've used this word today… 'gorgeous.' I thought it before when I was looking at the picture of that woman I'd found in Jasper's book. And while there are obvious differences in their faces, the similarity of their features is striking; where she was impossibly beautiful, he is devastatingly handsome.

I allow my eyes to wander to the rest of his body—his neck, the rising and falling of his chest, the pale skin of his arms—and as I do, I begin to realize something: to any other eyes, in any other light, I'm sure his scars would be visible. But me, I can't see them at all.

And I never will.

Because scars are something that happen _to_ a person, that change them and make them different from who they _were_. But I've only ever known _one_ Jasper, and the Jasper _I _know has skin that looks as though it were made of veined marble. And to me, that doesn't make him scarred, it just makes him uniquely beautiful.

And even though I can't see him clearly, I know, without a doubt, that Jasper _is_ beautiful. I remember being in awe of the woman in the picture before, but this… this doesn't even compare. I suddenly feel like I'm sharing the room with an angel.

"_Alice…_"

I freeze in place.

_Please__ tell me he did not just say my name. Please tell me he doesn't know how close I am to him._

Fortunately, it seems like my unnaturally bad luck has finally run out, because seconds later, I hear him snore again, quite loudly.

I sigh in relief and decide that I've tempted fate enough for one day, so I slowly begin to make my way back around the bed and towards the door. But, again, before I reach it, he stops me.

"_Don't go_."

He's still asleep; I can tell from the slow, even sound of his breathing. But I find that, even though the request was made unconsciously, it's still impossible for me to refuse.

I walk back to the chair and settle into it as comfortably as I can. But even though I'm both mentally and physically worn out, there's a strange new feeling growing inside of me that makes even the thought of sleep seem impossible. It makes my heart beat so hard and fast that I think it just might bruise my ribs; it makes my face flush red and my palms sweat, and my breaths come in short, stuttering gasps. From all my symptoms, this should undoubtedly be one of the most painful things I've ever felt in my life.

But it's not. Instead, it feels _amazing_; like pride and happiness and excitement and wonder all at the same time.

No one has ever had to explain emotions to me—somehow, like being able to talk and think and reason, my otherwise shattered memory retained the ability to distinguish between emotions after the accident. So the fact that it is so foreign to me now simply means that it's something I've never felt before. And though I don't have a name for it, there are two things which I know for certain: I'm only feeling it because of Jasper, and I don't ever want it to end.

--------

I must fall asleep eventually, because the next thing I know, Jasper's voice is calling to me out of the darkness.

"Alice," he's saying, softly, but urgently, "Alice, you have to wake up. It's morning."

"Huh?" I manage to croak out, my tired voice feeling like sandpaper in my throat.

"It's morning," he repeats, "you have to go before the su—before someone finds you in here."

I turn to look out the window behind me. 'Morning' is a rather loose definition for the current hour. It's probably no more than 6:00 or so—no one will be in to check on either of us for hours. But, remembering last night's conversation, I instantly realize the real reason Jasper is so insistent that I leave: the sun will be up soon, and not even the heavy blinds can keep its rays from brightening the room.

I don't want to leave; that strange and wonderful feeling that captivated me last night is still glowing within me, and I'm afraid that the further I am from Jasper, the less I'll be able to feel it. But I also don't want to make him mad by overstaying my welcome, so, reluctantly, I lower my feet to the floor.

I move cautiously towards the light that is peeking out from under his door, steadying myself on the railing of his bed as I go. It's not as bad as it was last night—the more I walk, the more used to it my legs become. But the going is still slow, and as I shuffle around the bed, I suddenly realize the irony of the situation—Jasper's making me leave 'cause he's afraid of being stared at, but certainly, _definitely_ he can see the outline of my figure stumbling around like an infant right now. It hardly seems fair.

And the _worst_ part of it is, that he doesn't _say_ anything. So far, the only thing he's said to me this morning is "get out," so maybe he's still upset about the fact that I basically barged into his room without permission, even if I did it to help him. Or maybe he wasn't really sleeping when I was standing over his bed last night. Maybe he'd known I was there, and he's, perhaps justifiably, upset about it. Well, okay. But still….

_Damn it, Jasper, __say something__._

I reach the doorway and place my hand on the knob. I pause for a second, just hoping that he might take this opportunity to speak, which he doesn't. So I do the only thing that's left for me to do—I open the door and step out into the hallway.

The harsh fluorescent lighting makes me pause for a moment before my eyes can adjust. When they do, I see that, like I predicted, the moment I shut the door on the silence behind me, the happy, contented feeling I'd had inside me slips away. And, even worse, it's replaced with a terrible, lonely sadness, like I might have just closed the door on that feeling forever.

I lean against the wall for support and make my way back into my room. After being cramped into a ball all night, my legs are grateful when I'm finally able to stretch out on my bed. But the rest of me… the rest of me wishes that I could be anywhere else but alone in this room right now.

But I don't have to feel alone for long, because suddenly, without warning, I hear a knock on our wall.

"You make it back okay?" Jasper asks. I can tell that his attempted casual indifference is masking something deeper—a stronger emotion that I can only hope isn't disappointment or anger. But, he's talking to me again, so, for the moment, I really don't care _why_.

"Um… yup. Just fine," I say, not even attempting to hide my nerves.

Everything goes silent again, and I begin to realize how awkward this conversation feels—how awkward this whole _morning_ has felt. I try to remember the last time I felt awkward around Jasper. I still haven't come up with an answer by the time he speaks again.

"You know," he says, tentatively, nervously, "I—I don't think I ever really thanked you… you know, for what you did."

He's right. The "thanks" he'd muttered when I'd first placed the button on his bed was more of a censure than an expression of gratitude. Curious to see where this conversation is going, I keep my mouth shut and wait for him to continue.

"Anyway," he says, more quickly this time, "thank you. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come. And I… I'm _glad_ that you came."

My heart almost leaps out of my chest in happiness, and I have to clamp my hand tightly over my mouth to stifle the giddy squeal that's threatening to break from my lips. All the nervousness, all the awkwardness, all the anger—none of it matters anymore.

_He's glad I came._

"It wasn't a problem," I say, trying to sound casual, but definitely sounding much like an overexcited ten-year-old girl again. And then I add, smiling, "I'm glad I came too."

The silence retunrs, but if it's awkward this time, I'm too excited to notice it. _He's glad I came_.

"I'm pretty fucking tired," Jasper says, after a while, "I think I'm going to try'n get some more sleep. But I'll talk to you later, k?"

And that confirms it: Jasper's back, swear words and all.

"Yup, okay," I nod, still smiling, "talk to you later."

He's right—sleep definitely sounds like a good idea.

I stretch my arms and legs, not even worrying about the general soreness of my body, and settle comfortably into my bed. And, just as I'm closing my eyes, I suddenly realize that the feeling that started last night in Jasper's room—that same faintly recognizable and yet wholly indescribable feeling of something-like-joy—it's back, just as strong as ever.

*******

**JPOV**

I let out a huge sigh of relief when Alice's breathing finally slows, confirming that she's fallen asleep. From the way she was walking in my room, I could tell that she needs it, and given that she spent most of her night sitting up with my sorry ass, it's not that hard to understand why. But sleep, sleep doesn't come so easily for me anymore, even despite the surplus of drugs coursing through my system. So instead, I lie back against my pillows, and try to piece together yesterday's events.

I remember getting prepped for surgery. I remember looking at my right arm as the nurses scrubbed it clean and considering how fucking ironic it was that one of the last pieces of unscarred flesh on my body was about to be hacked apart in a twisted sacrifice for my other wounds. But I didn't have much time to think about it, 'cause as soon as I got into the OR, they knocked me the hell out.

Anesthesia is a strange thing—totally unlike sleep. When you sleep, you have some concept of time passing—of life going on without you. But when you wake up from anesthesia, it's like you've just blinked your eyes, and suddenly you're in a different room, a different place, a different _time_ entirely. It's kinda surreal actually, and not at all unpleasant.

But the pain that I woke up to—_that_ wasn't interesting or amusing or entertaining at _all_. I'd known that there would be increased pain after my surgery, but I'd expected it to be localized, contained to my arms. This was different. _It was all over me._ Over the past two months, my pain has been steadily decreasing in intensity from a piercing scream to a dull roar. But when I woke up last night, it was like that first evening all over again—like there was a violent and ferocious explosion taking place within me.

I instinctively reached for my morphine button, but my arm wasn't working correctly—it was all numb and unresponsive, which, considering the fact that the doctors had removed a pretty fucking significant part of my muscle and skin, I guess I should have expected and tried to account for. But the pain was too much, and so I just kept pawing away at the bed fruitlessly, hoping that my hand would eventually land on that damn button.

Instead I'd knocked it on the fucking floor.

The brain has funny ways of dealing with pain. Like, how sometimes you cut yourself on something and you don't even notice you're hurt until you see the blood, and then that little tiny cut stings like hell. Well, it was the same kind of thing for me last night—as soon as I knocked that button the floor, as soon as my brain understood that I couldn't help myself anymore, the pain got impossibly, unbearably worse. And everything shut down—I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, I couldn't even _think_… I could only _be._ In pain.

I was only vaguely aware of the sounds I was making, though part of my mind registered that if I continued to make enough of them, someone would eventually hear me. And someone did—after what seemed like an eternity, I heard the handle of my door turn, and saw the light from the hallway break into my room. But what I wasn't expecting, what I wasn't prepared for, is _who_ I saw standing there.

Even through the darkness, even through my tears, I could tell it was Alice. And it wasn't because I could see her face (which I couldn't), or because I recognized the shape of her body from that picture on TV—it was because the moment she walked in the room my body just fucking _relaxed_. I still felt like hell, sure, but seeing her, it was like I'd already pressed that damn button and was just waiting for the morphine to work, knowing that it would all be over soon.

But my mind was having none of that—my mind was still _terrified_. And not only because of the pain any more, but because _Alice_ was in _my room_. This was what I'd been working so hard to protect her from, this was what I'd never wanted her to have to see. And suddenly she had a fucking front-row seat to my pain.

It was mortifying, it was infuriating, it was _unacceptable_. And the worst part was that I couldn't even tell her to get out, because in that moment, I _needed_ her—more than anything else in my life, I _needed her_, and I couldn't send her away.

Despite my extreme incoherence, she'd somehow figured out what was wrong and given me back the little plastic box that was the answer to my problems. And I thought that surely, after all she'd just seen, all she'd just been through, she'd want to get away from it—away from _me_—as quickly as possible.

When she didn't—when she just sat there in that chair without saying anything, I went through several different emotions at once: fear first, because I was afraid of what she might be able to see. And then a sort of sick sense of happiness that, whatever she saw, she couldn't think it was _that_ bad, or she wouldn't still be sitting there. Of course, then I realized that it was possible that she was in shock, which is when I started to feel guilty. And guilt was finally replaced with anger when I'd told with myself that I had no reason to feel guilty—she was in _my room_ after all.

I don't remember all of what I said to her—I wasn't lying when I told her that the morphine did some of my talking for me. But I remember that it was mean, and cruel, and pretty much the last thing that I ever should have said. And I remember the sound of her voice, and the sound of her crying when she'd realized what I'd accused her of. And that was worse than any of the physical pain I'd just been through.

So I'd apologized to her, and explained myself, and I think that, at least in part, she understood. She has to know what it feels like too, after all—being stared at and treated differently for something she has no fucking control over. And even though part of me believes that Alice would never look at me like that—would never look at _anybody_ like that, for that matter—if I saw it in her eyes, even if it was just for a second, I think that would finally be the pain that would break me—the point at which it would all become too much.

I don't remember much after that—obviously, at some point, I'd fallen asleep. I just hope it was before I was able to regale her with any of the inappropriate jokes I apparently tell the nurses whenever I'm heavily under the influence of morphine. And I guess I figured that she'd leave once I'd passed out. I'd never imagined she'd still be waiting for me in the morning.

This morning, when I woke up and saw her vague outline against the gradually brightening light in my window, I'd just lain there for a while and marveled at the fact that she'd stayed; that she hadn't been completely frightened away by everything I'd put her through. And as I looked at her, two completely conflicting voices battled within me.

One voice begged for me to reach out to her, to take her in my arms (well, _arm_ I guess) and never let her go.

But another voice kept telling me that I was a monster; that no matter how much pain I was in, I should never have let her come near me; that the happiness I felt at having her near me still only proved the point. Because I'd broken my final rule—I'd let her in on my pain, and I'd caused her pain because of it. I'd _hurt her_, in more ways than one—and for that, just like the woman who caused the crash that put her in all this mess, I deserved to rot in hell.

When I'd finally woken her up so that she could leave before the sun got too bright in the sky, I'd watched her move towards the door slowly, uncertainly, _painfully_. And even though it hurt to watch her, the second voice in my head demanded that I watch her take each excruciating step so that I could see what my selfishness had done.

And he almost had me convinced, that second voice. He almost convinced me that the best thing I could possibly do for her would be to let her walk out of my room without saying a word to her and never speak to her again. That I should just cut all ties with her and go back to ignoring her like I had in the beginning. That it was the only way that would stop me from causing any further harm to come to her.

But when she closed the door behind her, leaving me alone in the dark, the first voice started fighting back again. And suddenly I felt all the sadness and loneliness and emptiness that I would have to live with if I had to let her go. At the same time, I felt all the happiness and contentment and peace that I felt the moment she walked through my door the night before. And I knew I couldn't give that up.

So, I guess the second voice was right after all—I am a monster. And it gets worse, because now that I've felt her, seen her shape, heard her voice unobstructed by a wall, well… like any man who has been granted a taste of true happiness, I want _more_.

I want her to come back again.

----------

She does.

Alice slept for most of the day after my surgery. But as soon as she woke up, as soon as she was coherent, I asked her if she'd come back. It was a pathetic, pitiful, stupid request, I know—after all, who really wants to sit with someone in the dark for a few hours every night and just fucking _talk _to them?

But when I asked her, she said yes. And though I'm quite certain she agreed out of pity rather than any possibility that she might get something positive out of the whole experience, I really couldn't care less. Because the moment she entered my room that second night, I felt it again—that same sense of relaxation, of peace that I'd felt in the morning.

I've been feeling it ever since

For two weeks now we've been following the same routine. We spend the mornings in our rooms, sometimes talking, sometimes not—it doesn't really matter so long as we know that the option to talk is there if either of us want it. After lunch, Alice usually goes off to her physical therapy, and, for the first couple of days at least, I used this alone time to learn how to write with my right hand, which is really much harder than it sounds. I mean, for all the progress I've made in this particular exercise over the past few weeks, it really is a wonder I ever learned to write at all.

But sooner or later Physical Therapy calls for everyone in this hospital, and so, five days after my surgery, I began mine.

Unlike Alice's PT which, from what I can tell, mostly involves lifting weights and rebuilding the muscle mass she lost from having her legs in casts, my daily therapy centers around regenerating the elasticity of my skin. Every day the therapists put me in splints that are designed to pull my skin as tightly as possible—like stretching out a rubber-band to its maximum capacity. They also "massage" my wounds, which, I guess in theory sounds nice enough, but in practice, it feels more like they're just pressing hot coals into my body all over again.

For two hours every day I'm pulled and prodded and contorted into terrible positions that I didn't even think my body capable of. And my reward for all of it? Today, after only a few short weeks of the most horrific pain anyone should ever have to go through, I raised my left arm two inches off my bed.

So far, "recovery" really fucking sucks.

The _only_ positive thing about it is that I only have to have my bandages changed once a day now, and fortunately, it happens in the morning. So at night, Alice comes over as soon as it gets dark, and she stays until one or both of us gets too tired to stay awake any longer.

I live for this time. I know it's got to be boring as hell for her—just having to sit in the dark and listen to me ramble on about whatever stupid topic comes to mind. I mean, we can't even watch TV or read a book or anything 'cause of my insistence that we keep the lights off. It's fucking childish really, and sometimes, I hate myself for it. But every time I think I've worked up enough courage to let her finally see me, some fucking doctor or nurse or patient I pass in the hall will give me _that look_, and I'll lose my nerve.

And you know, it's probably for the best. Because, though my recovery is going painfully slow, Alice's is progressing remarkably fast. When she moves around in my room now, I hardly even notice any signs that she's limping or in any sort of pain. I know it's only a matter of time before her doctors discharge her, and when she leaves, I don't want her to remember me as a grotesque, disfigured monster—if she thinks of me at all, I'd have her remember only my voice. 'Cause, like I've been saying from the beginning, that's all I really have to give her.

Tonight, three weeks to the day since my surgery, she enters my room and plops down into the chair closest to the door. To be honest, I'd rather have her sit where she sat on the first night she came—around next to my right side instead of my left. But I'm pushing my luck by even asking her to keep coming at all, so I let her proximity to my burned side slide. Besides, it's not like she can see me anyway.

"Hey, kid," I say, as she settles herself into her seat, "how's it going?"

"Ugh," she groans, "you know I hate when you call me that. I'm almost as old as you are—I am definitely _not_ a kid."

"Actually," I tease, using a bit of knowledge I got from one of the nurses, "I heard a rumor that says differently. Seems the nurses think you're eighteen, not nineteen. That's two years difference. And besides," I add, when her lack of response indicates that she's sufficiently embarrassed at being caught in a lie of sorts, "if it bothers you that much, then why don't you just come up with a nickname for me? Then we'll be even."

"I might just do that…" she mutters, in what I assume is meant to sound like a menacing tone, but what really just makes her sound more like the child she claims not to be. Either way, it's still pretty damn cute.

"Be nice," she warns, "or I won't give you what I've got for you."

I smile to myself, already perfectly aware of what "it" is. For about a week now she's been using her new-found mobility to sneak off to the vending machines and bring back candy that the two of us share at night. I fund the little covert operation, feeling "confectionery education" a necessary part of her re-integration into the world. And also, I really fucking miss candy.

"All right," I say grimacing as I raise myself into a slightly more upright position on my bed, "you win; no more nicknames."

"Ever?" she asks hopefully.

"Tonight," I qualify, smirking. But it seems to be enough for her, since seconds later I feel something drop onto my bed. As soon as I reach over with my right hand to pick it up, I know what it is.

"Holy shit, Alice," I say, greedily tearing at the wrapper, which she has already started open for me, "you read my mind. How on earth did you know how much I love these?"

"What?" she asks quickly. I'm so engrossed in my eating that I hardly even register her sudden change in tone.

"I said I absolutely love these. They've always been my favorite. When I was little I—"

"No, I don't care about the damn candy Jasper. What was the other part? What else did you say?"

That gets my attention. Alice hardly ever swears, and she _never_ cuts me off like that, even when she's annoyed. I swallow the lump of chocolate I currently have in my mouth, and try to remember what I've said that got her so upset.

"Um… I think I said, 'you must have read my mind.' It's just an expression, Alice. It doesn't mean anything."

"Where did you hear that?" she asks quietly, her voice shaking with… fear? Confusion? Uncertainty? Whatever it is, it's tying my stomach into iron knots.

"Where did you hear it, Jasper?" she repeats, though now her strained voice is barely a whisper. And then,

"Jasper, who… who's Edward?"


	8. And Yet Afraid

**A/N: Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Chapter Seven: _And Yet Afraid_

_"To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,  
But life without meaning is the torture   
Of restlessness and vague desire--   
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid."   
__~Edgar Lee Masters, __The Spoon River Anthology_

_

* * *

_

**APOV**

_The boy enters the kitchen and plops down next to me at the table, already smiling mischievously. He clears his throat to get my attention._

"_So, Alice. I heard you want Chris Porter to ask you to the formal."_

"_What? I do not!"_

"_You do so. You're in lo-o-ove with him. You know how I know? The other day in gym you spent the whole class pretending you didn't know how to play tennis so that he'd come and help you with your 'follow through.' Tsk tsk. I'm sure mom and dad would love to know that you're putting all those years of lessons to good use._

"_And at the beginning of the semester you told your Biology teacher that you were allergic to Julia Pierce's perfume just so he'd have to move you across the room to Chris' lab table. And every day you walk home three blocks out of your way just so you can walk past his house. You basically stalk him, Alice. Face it—you're in love."_

"_Edward! What—How—Who told you that?!"_

_The bronze-haired boy taps his temple with his finger and smiles crookedly._

"_Mind-reader."_

"Alice?" Jasper asks, concerned. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I—I don't know," I whisper.

Suddenly nothing makes sense. I haven't had a "memory" in months—not since the day the policeman brought me my bracelet, and even that was more conjecture than anything else. But this is so real, so vivid, like I just watched it happen moments ago and I'm simply replaying it in my head.

It's _so_ clear, that, at first, I'd thought I was just remembering a scene from TV; that Jasper was quoting from a show when he was talking about the candy, and I was just reacting strangely to his allusion. But Jasper assures me he doesn't know a single "Edward," either on TV or otherwise. And plus, the boy in my head had used _my_ name—he'd called me Alice.

"Do you want to tell me?" Jasper asks. "Maybe it would help if you could tell me what you remember. Maybe more'll start coming back."

Maybe. But honestly, I'm not sure I _want_ anything else to come back to me. Because right now, in this moment, I realize something that I never thought of before: losing my memory—that was the _easy_ part. Because once you completely forget something—if you never even knew you had it in the first place—then you can't miss it. I can regret not having a family, I can regret not knowing who I used to be, but I can't _miss_ any of it, not really.

But the minute, the _second_ that I remember this boy—this Edward—I suddenly miss him with all my heart. And I don't even know _why_, because, in the brief glimpse of him I have, he's teasing me, and making fun of me, and being really freaking annoying. But somehow, he's doing it all in a way that makes me feel accepted, and wanted, and…

_Loved._ I know that feeling now, though it didn't take this sudden memory to help me recognize it. The day after Jasper's surgery, I'd figured out what it was by going through every other emotion I could think of until I found something that fit. Happiness, wonder, amazement, friendship, joy—all of them were close, but none of them were sufficient for what I was feeling. But as soon as I'd put a name to it—as soon as I'd called it "love"—I knew it was right. I loved Jasper; I love him still.

So, yes, I know what love is. And though the feeling that I get from this memory is slightly different from what I feel for Jasper, I recognize it immediately as being within the same category of emotion. Whatever else Edward may have been, he was my _family_, and I'd loved him. And whoever said that stupid line about it being better to have had loved and lost than to never have loved at all… that person must never have really lost _anything_. Because now that I know, or at least have reason to believe, that I had love once... I wish my memory had just stayed erased.

I lean forward in my chair, rest my elbows on the edge of Jasper's bed, and bury my head in my hands. I know he'll be less than thrilled about the sudden closeness of our bodies, but I've never felt more alone in my life than I do in this moment, and I need to feel close to _someone_ so it feels like I'm still connected to the world around me.

"Why didn't they come for me?" I cry, my tears already coming so hard that my voice chokes on the words. "If I had a family, then why didn't they know where I was? Why didn't they try to find me? Why didn't they come?"

I know I refused the media exposure. I know I refused to be paraded around like a lost puppy until someone claimed me. But in the week following the accident, _everyone_ else's families showed up. Every single victim had at least one family member who was able to identify his or her body—who was willing to mourn for them, to cry for them. But no one came for me. And even though I was one of the five—well, four, I guess—people that survived, the fact that no one came looking for me made me feel more like a corpse than the lucky girl everyone kept saying I was.

Over the weeks I convinced myself that I'd had no family—that I was an orphan or something and I'd already been alone in the world when the bus took my memory from me. But what I remembered today—it changes things. I'd had a _family_. A mother and a father and a brother. _So why didn't they come?_

"I don't know, Alice," Jasper says, his voice tight, strained, probably angry that I'm so close to him. But he mercifully seems to understand my need to feel near him, because instead of telling me I need to move, he simply adds, "I don't know how anyone could have just left you here."

After a few minutes of silence, I feel him place something in the bed next to me. When I reach for it, I feel that he's handing me a box of Kleenex which, to be honest, I really need. But I'm also aware that this is probably the subtle hint I've been waiting for that I need to get off his bed, so as I dry my eyes I begin to apologize. Before I can even get out three words, he interrupts me.

"It's okay. Whatever you need right now, it's fine."

_Well, if that's how he's going to react every time I have a mental breakdown, then maybe I should have them more—_

Screw that. It's not worth it. Still, I'm grateful that he's not pushing me away, so, being careful not to touch any part of him, I fold my arms across the edge of his bed and rest my cheek on top of them so that I'm facing out into the room.

In a way, I've become just as appreciative of the dark as Jasper. Love is nothing if not humiliating after all, and the list of profoundly embarrassing things I do around Jasper is, apparently, endless. Some things, like the way my voice jumps up an octave every time he so much as says something remotely nice to me, are difficult to mask. But there are other, more physical things that I'm grateful to be able to hide.

He never sees the goofy smile that spreads across my face every time I walk into his room. He never sees my face flush ten shades of red every time he says my name. He never sees the happy tears that wet my eyes every time I hear him laugh. And, he never sees how, like in this moment, my body relaxes by degrees the closer I am to him.

More than that, I'm grateful for what the dark hides _from_ me. Because, even worse than the embarrassment of Jasper knowing that I love him would be if I had to look into his face and know that he didn't feel the same way. In the dark like this, it's easy for me to pretend. I can sit here and imagine that he's looking at me with the same devotion and desire with which I look at him, and be happy just in knowing that the possibility _might_ be there. But if the lights were on, and I saw a truth that was different from what I felt… it would be enough to make me wish I'd never woken up after the crash.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks gently, interrupting my thoughts.

_Not really._ I'd much rather just forget I'd ever had a memory. I mean, I've already forgotten it once—how hard could it be to forget it again? But I always tell Jasper everything, and somehow, just the act of telling makes whatever it is seem less terrible. So I close my eyes and snuggle my head further down into my arms, and tell him about what I'd remembered.

"I've never had a memory like this before," I tell him, my voice still hoarse from crying. "I could _see_ him, Jasper. I could see Edward."

"Do you know who he is?" he asks cautiously.

I furrow my brow, because I don't—at least, not really. I can only guess. "I think he may be—may have been—my brother. He—he mentioned our mom and dad, at any rate."

"What'd he look like?" Jasper asks. For some reason, the anger is back in his voice. I move my arms slightly back towards me instinctively, just in case I've unintentionally gotten too close.

"He was really tall and thin, but not like, too skinny or anything. He had light brown hair, and really pale skin, and his eyes were _so green_, it was like they were made of… of... I dunno, green diamonds or something. They were beautiful—he was beautiful." I stop, realizing how little I look like the person I just described. If we _were_ brother and sister, which suddenly seems highly unlikely, one of us was clearly adopted.

"Emeralds," Jasper supplies after a few moments of silence, his voice still bitter.

"What?" I ask, moving my arms back a little further. Honestly, at this point, I'd be better just sitting up again.

"'Green diamonds.' Those are called emeralds."

I nod my head in my arms indifferently, wondering why Jasper fixated on this particular part of my description. But before I can come up with a reason, he asks me another question.

"Was that the whole memory? Just seeing him?"

"No," I say, replaying the strange conversation in my mind, "we were talking. Apparently I liked some guy and was doing all sorts of strange things to get his attention. And somehow Edward found out and was teasing me for it. He knew all of this stuff that he shouldn't have known, like he was reading my—"

My voice breaks off, because this time, when I see the memory again, a final sentence gets added.

"_Oh my God, you jerk! You've been reading my diary, haven't you? You are gonna be in __so much trouble__ when I tell mom and dad!"_

I bury my head self-consciously. Even though this is something that obviously happened many years ago, somehow, the embarrassment and shame haven't faded.

_Perfect. If I'm going to be haunted by incomplete memories, can't I at least remember things that aren't so mortifying?_

"He read your diary, didn't he?" Jasper asks, laughing a little. I open my eyes, a bit startled.

"How did you—"

"Ha," Jasper laughs even louder now, "he's definitely your brother, Alice. That's a total brother thing to do. I used to read my sister's diary all the time; it was so worth it—even when I got caught—'cause she'd write the most ridiculous shit in there, and I'd always have something to blackmail her with."

I push myself off the bed quickly and turn my head towards Jasper, my eyes wide despite the fact that he can't see them.

"You have a sister?" I ask, my voice absolutely ringing with the shock of his statement.

I'd had my suspicions since the day I found the picture in Jasper's book of course. But he'd never so much as mentioned any member of his family to me before except for the one time he talked about his parents not being able to look at him after the fire. And he'd certainly never given any indication that he had any siblings, so I figured I'd been wrong about the girl in the photo. But now, I guess I wasn't so far off the mark.

"She was the one in the picture, wasn't she?" I ask when Jasper fails to answer my original question. I instantly regret it when I feel his whole body tense on the bed.

"What picture?" he asks through gritted teeth.

I sit further back from the bed, defensively. "I—um… it was in that book… you know, the one about the river? There was a picture of a blonde woman and a big, brown-haired guy. I didn't mean to look, honestly. It just fell out."

I hear Jasper exhale slowly, and feel his body relax slightly.

"Yeah, that's my sister. Twin actually. Rosalie… Rose." He speaks slowly, detachedly, like he's no longer sitting here in this room with me, but in another place and time entirely. And while his voice is definitely tinged with sadness, regret, and even anger, it's clear from the way he says her name that both admiration and love color his thoughts of her as well.

"She's very beautiful," I say reverently, as I cautiously resume my former position with my head in my arms at Jasper's side.

"Yes," he agrees, laughing half-heartedly, "she is that."

"You must," I begin, without really even thinking about what I'm saying, "do you… since you're twins I mean, you must loo—"

"I look nothing like my sister," he cuts me off abruptly. He's wrong of course—even in the dim light we sit in now I can recognize the similarities—the tall, lean bodies, the soft, wavy hair. But it was a stupid thing to bring up—much like most of the conversations I've started tonight. So instead of pressing it any further, I decide to switch to another topic.

"Who was the man she was with?"

Jasper sighs, and I feel him bring his hand up to his face. "I can't be sure unless I can see the picture," he says, "but if 'big' is the first thing you thought of, then it's probably Emmett. He's—he was—my friend."

I cringe at his correction. _I can't seem to do anything right tonight._

"Was?" I whisper. "Is he, I mean, are they…" I trail off, unable to finish my sentence, and suddenly realizing that I don't want to know if what I'm thinking is true.

"What?" Jasper asks, slightly alarmed, "No. God, no. He's fine; _they're_ fine, I'm sure. We just—we don't talk anymore."

After several minutes of silence, he adds, "They're married."

I'd thought that he'd become estranged from his sister and friend for the same reasons he'd sent everyone else away after the fire—that he couldn't stand for them to watch him suffer, for them to have to look at him in his pain. But from the way he spits out that final sentence—with more hate and malice than I think I may have ever heard from him—I can tell that their marriage, and not the fire, is the real cause of the distance Jasper's placed between them. Try as I might, I just can't imagine why this could be.

"And?" I ask, sounding slightly more sarcastic than I'd wanted to.

"_And_," Jasper sneers, "they got married for the wrong fucking reasons. It was too fast; it was too early. They should have known better—both of them."

He's obviously editing and leaving out crucial bits of information. But at least I can infer from his tone that I've guessed correctly—that whatever caused the strain in Jasper's relationship with his sister and friend happened long before the fire.

I've never thought much about Jasper's family before, partially because he never mentioned them and partially because, not believing I had any family of my own, the thought never really crossed my mind. But in light of my recent memory, Jasper's self-imposed alienation from the rest of his family suddenly seems both absurd and incredibly selfish—regardless of any reasons he might have. Because everything I've lost, he has. And instead of appreciating it and holding onto it, he's letting each piece of it go, one by one. His sister, his friends, his parents—he's found some ridiculous excuse to push all of them away.

_I'll take them_, I want to say. _Give me their numbers and their addresses and I'll take them. They might not replace the real family I once had, and I might not be able to replace you, but we could at least try._

"What are you thinking about?" Jasper asks, his voice more controlled now than before.

"I don't understand," I admit, a little ruefully. "I don't understand how you can give all that up."

I want him to explain it to me, because I don't want to think that Jasper—the same Jasper who sits up with me at night and listens to me talk about my boring, monotonous day, the same Jasper who will listen with rapt attention while I deconstruct every dress in _Cosmo_—could possibly be so selfish. I want him to tell me what happened between him and his parents and his sister so that I can understand and forgive him for banishing himself from the very thing I want so desperately. But instead of an explanation, I just feel him shrug his shoulders as he says,

"It wasn't easy."

And that does it: my patience breaks. "What the hell, Jasper?" I say, sitting up and staring at him across the dark. "Is that really all you have to say? 'It wasn't easy'? Do you have any idea what I'd give to have what you've got?"

I feel hot tears beginning to sting in my eyes again, so I lower my head back down and let them fall into my arms. I was a little harsh, I realize—especially because I don't know the whole story. But I just don't understand how he can't see how precious the things he's given up really are.

Jasper sighs and shoves the Kleenex box closer to me. To my surprise, when he speaks, he doesn't sound angry or hurt. Instead, he sounds apologetic.

"I don't mean to upset you, Alice. I know this is hard for you. And I know it must feel really fucking unfair when someone like me has all the things you want and doesn't even seem to appreciate having them. But really, I _do _understand the value of everything I've given up—and, I know this might not make any sense to you, but that's why I _had_ to do it. Like I said, it wasn't easy. But believe me, everyone involved is better off for it."

Classic Jasper. By this point in our relationship, I could write these little self-deprecating tirades myself. '_Maybe you'd have better luck with someone else,_' '_you can't ever see me like this,_' _'it's hardly worth the fucking trip for you_.' It all basically amounts to the same thing: "I'm not worth it." And honestly, I'm a little tired of hearing it.

"If I were your sister," I say, firmly, "I'd want to have you in my life no matter what."

"You really don't know what you're talking about," Jasper says cynically.

"But thanks," he adds gently, a few seconds later.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, knowing from his tone that Jasper isn't going to tell me any more about this particular part of his history. And that's fine, really, because right now I'm too exhausted from having to deal with the ghosts of my own past to try and help him deal with his too.

And like freaking clockwork, as soon as I think the word "ghost" in my mind, I see one in the darkness behind my eyelids. I see Edward. I see his teasing, but loving smile, I see his disheveled hair and piercing green eyes, and I realize that, now that I've seen him once, I'll never _stop _seeing him. I'll never stop wondering why my family never came for me, I'll never stop missing them, and I'll never stop loving them, even though I can't even remember who they are. And every time I see his face, I'll lose them all over again.

It's enough to make me erupt into my third bout of uncontrollable sobbing of the evening. Except that, before I can, Jasper reminds me that, whatever happened in my past, whatever else I've lost, at least I still have him—I still have my future.

"I would've found you," he says softly, "If I were your brother, I would've found you."

*****

**JPOV**

I have a nephew.

I've never met him; I've never seen him, at least not in person. But I know he exists because about a month after the fire I received an envelope without a return address, even though I fucking knew my sister'd written it from the handwriting. And inside was a picture of a little blonde-haired, smiling baby. The kid was so young I couldn't even tell whether it was a boy or girl until I thought to flip the picture over to see if she'd written it on the back. 'Course, in finding out its gender, I also found out something else I really didn't want to know.

_April 14th, 2008 8lbs, 4oz Charles Jasper Hale_

Charles Jasper Hale.

I love my sister, I really do. But she's got a fucking twisted sense of humor. At least, humor's what I think it is—she _has_ to be trying to make some kind of joke in giving that kid my name. 'Cause _I'd _told her he was a mistake. I'd told her she was throwing her life away. I'd fought her every step of the way about that goddamn kid, and in doing so, I'd managed to tear apart my entire family. So really, what can she possibly be thinking, naming him after me?

It's not that I ever objected to Emmett and Rosalie being together. It was quite the opposite, actually. He was my roommate freshman year of college, and we'd gotten an apartment together for our sophomore year. Last summer, he and I both got jobs working for a newspaper near my home in Texas, and so, to save money, he'd stayed at my parents' place. Rose was there, home from college like us, and the two of 'em hit it off immediately.

He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, sure, but then again, neither was she. But unlike the regular sort of guys Rosalie tended to attract—pretty-boys or jocks mostly who lost interest the moment Rosalie hinted that she was looking for something more than a one-night-stand—Emmett took the time to get to know her. He took her on dates and went shopping with her and did all the boyfriend-type stuff that she'd never really gotten from anyone else. God knows what they talked about all those hours they spent alone together—but whatever it was, it sure made them both happy. Even after the first week Emmett spent at our house, I could tell they were perfect for each other.

Emmett actually asked me permission to start seeing my sister. Honest to God, he fucking asked me permission. It was one of the most awkward things I think I've ever been through in my entire life. He came into my room one night while I was on my computer, sat down on my bed, looking like he'd just run over a dog or something, and started mumbling something about wanting my 'blessing.' I'd kicked him out after about seven seconds of that shit, telling him that he could date her so long as he never used the word 'blessing' in my presence ever again.

Too bad he didn't ask me if it was okay if he started screwing her too, 'cause that sure would have spared us a whole shitload of trouble.

I'm not actually that naïve—I know what boys my age mean when they say they're "going out" with someone. Hell, I've "been out" with a few girls myself. But I really didn't think Emmett would try'n pull that shit in my parents' house. I thought he'd at least wait until she came up for a weekend during the semester, which would have given me a chance to give him the "I don't mind that you're dating my sister but if you ever hurt her I'll beat your head in" speech. But of course, I never did get that chance.

Rose found out she was pregnant on the day Emmett and I left to go back to school. I could tell something was up because Emmett was really fucking quiet all the way back to Pennsylvania, and Emmett is never _ever _quiet. By the time we reached our apartment I was really pissed off, 'cause that is a _long_ drive to have to do in complete silence. I was in my room, unpacking all my stuff when Emmett knocked on my door. I turned around, ready to tell him off for being such an ass for the past two days, but before I could say anything, he just blurted it out.

"_Rose's pregnant."_

He'd said it like he was saying 'hello.' Like it was the most normal, unexceptional piece of information he could have given me. And so I repaid the compliment. Completely calmly, without any ceremony whatsoever, I'd walked up to him and punched him as hard as I could right in his goddamn nose. Broke it, too. And even though, in truth, Emmett could definitely have made me suffer for punching him (he is one freaking enormous guy after all), he didn't even so much as shove me. He'd just turned around and walked away like he'd been expecting that reaction from me, and now that I'd hit him, it somehow made the fact that he'd gotten my sister pregnant okay.

I haven't talked to him since.

I called Rosalie that night to ask her what she was going to do about it. She told me she was going through with it, which I respected. But when she told me she was going to _keep_ the kid—that's when I first blew my top at her. She was only nineteen—she was still in college, she didn't have a job, she didn't even know what she wanted to _do _with her life yet—and she was going to throw it all away for a kid she'd conceived mistakenly. It was ridiculous, and pig-headed, and ignorant… and exactly like Rosalie.

The more I tried to talk her into adoption, the more resolute she became in deciding to keep the baby. I asked her what Emmett thought about all of it, and she assured me that he was with her one hundred percent of the way, which I found really fucking hard to believe at first—he was, after all, not exactly the type to be ready for commitment at age twenty… or ever. But I do have to give him credit for trying.

Every weekend he left our apartment at 4:00 on Friday afternoon and returned at 9:00 on Sunday evening, having made the ten-hour round trip down to Virginia and back to visit my sister. And in November he drove himself over from his home in Tennessee to spend Thanksgiving with us so that Rosalie wouldn't have to break the news of the pregnancy all on her own.

My mother cried, my father would have hit him if Rose hadn't stopped him, and I almost hit him again for good measure. All the while Emmett stood by Rosalie's side and held her close to him and assured us all that he loved her and would be there for her through it everything. And even though I still fucking hated him for taking my sister's life away from her, I couldn't help but believe him.

He proposed to her in December—he had a real ring and everything, though God knows where he got the money to buy it. They set the wedding for March 15th—one month before the baby was due. To my surprise, as soon as the date was set, my mom and dad suddenly became invested in all of it—buying baby clothes and flower arrangements, and renting the church, and picking out cakes. I just couldn't believe that they were letting her do this fucking stupid thing without putting up a fight. So for four months I fought with my parents as much as I fought with Rosalie. By the time the wedding finally did roll around, I wasn't on speaking terms with anyone in my family.

When Rosalie told me that Emmett wanted to ask me to be his best man, I refused. I didn't even plan on going to the wedding, but my mom and dad basically said that if I didn't show up, they'd stop paying for my school. So I rented a tux and resigned myself to sitting alone in the back of the church while my sister threw her life away.

But I never did make it. Because Rose insisted on having a rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, and of course, attendance was mandatory. So I'd shown up and sulked in my seat while everyone around me danced and laughed and cracked jokes. It all made me rather sick to be honest. So I'd started drinking. Everyone was paying so much attention to Rosalie and Emmett that they never even noticed me illegally finishing off glass after glass of champagne. I never drank that much at college, so it didn't take more than a bottle or so of the stuff before I really started to feel it. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the height of my inebriation also happened to coincide with the time of the evening that was designated for toasts.

I don't remember all of what I said exactly. I know it involved a quite detailed account of Emmett's sexual conquests before Rosalie, as well as a rather graphic description of what happens to a woman's body while giving birth (thank you, obligatory collegiate science requirement). I think I also managed to slip the word 'blessing' in there a time or two. I do remember that I concluded by calling Emmett an unmentionably dirty word and trying to punch him in the face again—which didn't work out so well for me this time around since I was seeing three of him, and I aimed for the wrong one.

Needless to say I was escorted from the building several minutes later. And, after retching my guts out on the side of the road, I'd gone home, packed my bags, and caught the first train back to Pennsylvania.

When I arrived at school early the next evening, I knew that I couldn't just sit in my empty apartment and think about everything that had just happened. I couldn't sit there and think about how I'd ruined my sister's wedding, or how I'd let my family down, or how both Rosalie and Emmett were losing their innocence by rushing into life way too fast. So I packed a change of clothes and a sleeping bag, and I set off towards a campground that I went to whenever I needed time away from the City.

I know it was that idiot kid who emptied a fucking full bottle of lighter fluid onto a pile of wood who started that fire. But it was my anger, and shame, and recklessness that kept it burning. Because even though the lake was right there in front of me the whole time, it took my mind fucking forever to tell my body to jump into it. Because deep down, part of me knew I deserved what I was going through.

When my parents came to the hospital they tried to get me transferred to a burn center closer to home. But when I thought of how many things I'd already destroyed, and when I thought of all the things I _could _destroy by making my family witness all my pain, I knew I couldn't do it. And plus—Rosalie's baby was due soon. My parents needed to be helping her out, and not dealing with me. So I sent them away, hoping that at least that little kid would have a better life 'cause I wasn't in it.

I can see how Alice might think that I'm a selfish bastard. She didn't come right out and say it, of course, but I can see how, given the facts I presented her with, she might think it. But I meant what I said when I told her that I know the exact value of everything I've given up—I see the full weight of it every time I see that little boy's smiling face in the picture. That's when I know, without a doubt, that I made the right choice.

Which brings me back around to the fucking travesty of his name. _How could Rosalie—after everything that's happened—how could she possibly think to name that baby after me?_

I sigh and look down towards Alice, who is still resting on the side of my bed. Her breathing slowed down about an hour ago, so I guess somehow she managed to fall asleep in that unnatural position. It can't be comfortable for her, and to tell the truth, it's not really that comfortable for me either, since I'm half-hanging off the other side of the bed by now, trying to giver her space. But I know how difficult it must be for her to remember things, and so if laying her head down on my bed somehow helps her deal with it, then I'm not going to be the one to stop her.

I can just make out the shape of her small shoulders where they hunch over near my waist. She's always seemed tiny to me, more like a fairy than a girl. And tonight, after her memory, she somehow seemed to shrink impossibly smaller. Like instead of the memory _adding_ to the daily-growing sum of her, it somehow took something away.

I've always disliked her family, even though I never told her so. I just couldn't understand why they wouldn't even _look_ for her. I mean, I know she didn't do all the media crap the hospital wanted her to do, which honestly, I never really understood, but still—someone _had_ to have known she was on that bus. And yet no one ever showed up. No one ever cared enough to find her.

Pretty much from the moment I'd figured out what'd happened to Alice, I disapproved of her family. But now, after tonight, I fucking hate them. Because I had to listen to her wonder why she wasn't good enough for them to want to come for her. I had to sit here and listen to her cry over a family that she somehow still loves and misses, even despite what they've put her through. I had to listen to her mourn for a family that doesn't even deserve her.

How could anybody know Alice and not want her? It kills me when she's apart from me for any length of time—an hour, a minute. I'd never be able to smile or laugh or even fucking breathe if I didn't think she was happy. And yet, someone, somewhere, smiles and laughs and breathes without even knowing or caring if she's alive. And someday, when I finally get out of this god-awful place, I'm going to hunt that person, or _those_ _people_ down and spit in their fucking faces for making her go through all this alone.

_Yeah, they'll be lucky if that's all I do to them._

I feel Alice stir on the bed, so I quickly calm myself down so I'm not fucking seething with rage when I speak to her.

"Feeling better?" I ask, as she lifts her head off the bed and massages her shoulder with one hand.

"Mmmm," she says, lazily, dropping her head back down onto her arms. I hope she doesn't go back to sleep like that. It's obviously not good for her neck. But sleep is apparently the furthest thing from her mind, since seconds later she sits bolt upright in her chair.

"Jasper," she says, suddenly all scared and apologetic, "I'm so sorry. I didn't, I mean. I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," I cut her off, slightly confused by her reaction. It's not the first time she's fallen asleep in my room after all. "You weren't even out for that long. It's only 8:15."

"W-what?" she stammers, her voice still full of concern. "That's not it. It's… your hand… I didn't mean to… I'm sorry."

My hand? I glance down in the direction of my left arm, but can't see anything there because Alice's shape is still hunched over my bed, right over my hand.

"You can't feel that?" she asks, her voice shaking. "I'm not hurting you?"

_Holy shit. She's touching me. She's touching my hand._

"No," I tell her, trying extremely hard to keep my temper in check. "That hand—I can't feel anything. All the nerves were burnt in the fire. I won't… I probably won't feel anything there again."

But to my surprise—my horror, my wonder, my disgust—right now, I really fucking wish I could. I want to feel her touching me; I want to feel her hand on mine. Right after the fire, I'd been grateful that at least that part of me was numb to the pain. But right now, I'd have taken it. I'd have taken the pain a thousand times to be able to feel her.

But at the same time, the thought of her perfect, soft hand touching my mangled fingers, even through the bandages, sickens me to the point where I have to swallow to force down the bile rising in my throat. _This is wrong!_ my mind screams, even as my body craves her touch. But I can't move. It's like, even though I can't feel it, her little hand is pinning me down, freezing me in place, so that all I can do is wait for her to either move away in disgust, or keep her hand on mine. Either option would be equally painful.

_Move your hand, Alice Leave it there Move your hand For the love of God, touch me again--_

"What about this?" she asks, and I hear her hand move to another part of my arm. But apparently, the nerves are damaged there too, since I sill can't feel a thing.

"No," I whisper, my voice shaking.

I hear her hand move again, and then—

I inhale sharply as her fingers brush against my un-bandaged shoulder. And for the hundredth time I thank God for the darkness, because the moment I feel her skin against mine, my eyes well up with tears. Not because it hurts, or because it stings, but because, for the second time in my life, I'm on fire.

The flames start from the place where her fingers touch my skin, and dance out along and through my body until everything within me is burning. But unlike the last time, these flames are cool, and electric, and invigorating, like they're _giving_ me life instead of trying to take it from me. And unlike a normal fire that slowly dies as it runs out of things to burn, this fire within me continues to grow, even though my body seems hardly capable of containing it.

"Can you feel this?" Alice asks, as she gently spreads her fingers out against my skin.

The tears finally spill over as I realize that, unlike the physical contact that I receive from the doctors, or the nurses, or even myself whenever I'm forced to touch my own scars, Alice's touch is gentle, soothing, and completely unafraid. She keeps running her fingers over more and more of my skin, touching more and more of my scars, like they're not even there. And the more she touches them, the less I feel them, until eventually, _I _can't even be sure they're there.

For a moment, I want to tell her 'yes.' I want to tell her I can feel it, and beg her not to stop—beg her to touch me in all the places I'm scarred and make me whole again. But before I get a chance, her words from earlier in the evening surface to my mind in a cruel reminder of how fucking stupid I am for letting her touch me at all.

"_He had light brown hair, and pale skin, and his eyes were so green… They were beautiful—he was beautiful."_

Beautiful. Fuck.

I know she was describing her brother. But clearly she appreciated his beauty. Clearly it was something she admired and desired since she went into it in such great fucking detail. And why not? Why shouldn't Alice have someone who's perfect and complete and _beautiful_. Why should she waste her goddamn time sitting in this hospital with me and trying to put me back together again?

_She shouldn't. That's the fucking answer._

I let out the breath I've been holding, and tell her, not exactly a lie, but not quite the truth either:

"It burns."

Instantly, the cool fire raging within me is extinguished with the removal of her hand from my skin.

"Oh my God, Jasper," she says, and from the muffling of her voice, I can tell she's holding her hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's fine," I say, my voice shaking from the tears that are still running down my face. "You didn't hurt me."

It's true, at least in the way she means it. My skin, at least, is fine. But like the first fire that damaged my body, the fire that burned through me at her touch has left me with permanent, irreparable scars. Neither my mind nor my heart will ever forget the way it felt to have Alice's hand on me, and every touch I feel from now on will be painful in comparison.

"Jasper," Alice says quietly, almost a whisper, "I'm really sorry. Please tell me you're not mad."

I bring my right hand up to my eyes and wipe my fucking ridiculous tears away.

"I'm not mad at you," I say, honestly, "I shouldn't have let you get so close."

_I should never have let you get so close_.

That's goddamn right. I should never have let her near me. Not tonight, not three weeks ago when she first came into my room, and not all those months ago when I first started talking to her. She was always too good for me, she was always better than me; she always deserved more than anything I had to give her.

"I'm not mad," I repeat, my voice less shaky now that I'm finding my resolve, "but I think you should probably go. It's getting late."

"O-okay," she says, as she stands up slowly. She stands over me for a few seconds, waiting for me to say something I guess. But when I don't, she makes her way into her own room where I hear her crawl into her bed. Like always, it isn't long before I hear two little knocks on the wall.

"Promise you're not mad," she says, and from the tone of her voice, I can tell she's crying. Which of course, only makes my fucking tears start up again.

"Promise," I say quickly, before my voice has a chance to betray me again.

I hear her sniff softly before saying, "Okay, then. Goodnight, Jasper."

"Goodnight, Alice."

But I don't sleep. Instead, I lie awake in the dark and try to picture what Alice's life will be like once she leaves the hospital. It's not that hard to do, really. I see her working for some big magazine in New York—designing clothes, or working on cover shoots, or writing fashion advice columns. God knows she's good at that shit. I see her having a nice apartment, an expensive car, and a wonderful husband who treats her right and tells her every day how beautiful she is. She's smiling, and happy, and strong, and successful, and not at all held back by the half-remembered fragments of her past.

It's a shame I'll never get to see it. But for me, imagining it is enough. I'm used to it by now—imagining futures that begin the moment I become a figment of the past.

After all, this isn't the first time in my life I've had to let someone go.


	9. And by Such

**A/N: A word on the layout of this chapter. It's written backwards from the "present" in the story (November 30th, 2008) to the day Alice left the hospital (June 18th, 2008). When I post Alice's chapter, it will follow the same time-span, only moving forwards (i.e. from June to November). **

**If any part of this story is good, it's because Twila Reaux took the time to read it for me and make comments before I posted it. In honor of her hard work, I humbly dedicate this chapter to her.**

**The poem/song I'm using for both this chapter and chapter nine is one I've had in my mind since I started writing. There's a link to Luke Kelly's version of the song on my profile. It's a traditional Irish song, so don't be expecting punk rock or anything like that. **

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Chapter Eight:_ And by Such…_

"_On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge   
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,  
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay—   
O I loved too much and by such, by such is happiness thrown away."  
__ ~Patrick Kavanagh_, "_Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away" ("On Raglan Road")_

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**JPOV**

November 30th

how long since i felt  peace since i  felt hope  since i

felt

November 27th

I was too goddamn scared to turn on the oven, so I ordered Chinese. Fucking dumplings and kung-pao chicken on Thanksgiving. I ended up throwing most of it in the trash. What the fuck did I have to be thankful for anyway?

October 31st

I've always loved Halloween. For the first five years of my life, my parents would dress Rose'n me up in matching outfits: Jack and Jill, Mickey and Minnie, Dorothy and Toto. They really loved to play up the whole "twin" shtick. I'm sure if we'd been old enough to realize what was going on, we would have put an end to that crap much sooner.

By the time we were six, however we put our collective foot down. That year, Rose went as an angel and I went as a cowboy. We loved those costumes so much that we used them the next year too. We grew out of them by the time we were eight, but every year since then we found some way to incorporate a part of those original costumes into our new ones.

For Rose, it was her halo. No matter what she was—a fairy, a princess, or a devil—Rose would always place that halo on top of her head. For me, it was my plastic gun. Whether I was a pirate or a soldier or a zombie—I made that gun fit my outfit. I still know exactly where it is too—packed away in a box in my parents' attic.

I didn't need it this year though. For once, my costume was entirely complete without it. Hell, I didn't even need to buy a fucking costume in the first place.

I already made a pretty convincing monster.

October 18th

The infection itself wasn't that bad—the doctors just pumped me full of antibiotics and made me lie still in bed all day, which was fine with me since I was pretty fucking tired of physical therapy by that point. But what really fucking hurt was knowing that the stupid infection was trapping me in the hospital for longer than I needed to be there. I was supposed to leave three weeks after my second surgery—instead, it took a month and a half for the doctors to finally let me go.

Three more weeks that I had to lie in that bed and stare up at my fucking ceiling. Three more weeks that I had to wake up to strange and unfamiliar sounds coming from the other side of my wall. Three more weeks that I had to look at the empty chair next to my bed and feel the empty air in my room and try to convince myself that I'd done the right thing.

When the doctors finally discharged me, they fitted the left side of my body with a compression suit, and told me I had to wear the damn thing for twenty-three hours every day. They gave me a cane and a bottle of pills and a list of numbers I could call if anything went wrong. They gave me instructions on how to shower, how to dress my wounds, and how to _walk_, like I was a fucking infant or something. And then they all stood there and waved at me when I got into the taxi, like all these months I'd been visiting my friends or some shit instead of having been trapped in a fucking hospital.

The last time I'd been outside it was Spring—everything was growing, everything was blooming—the world was fucking full of life. But when I left the hospital that day it was rainy and cold and everything was dying again. Which was fucking perfect. Because if I'd had to face the sun, I think I might have just turned right back around and told the people waving stupidly behind me that I wasn't ready, even though I was absolutely dying to leave.

My apartment was exactly how I'd left it, right down to the dirty fucking pile of dishes that was stacked up in my sink. Emmett's bedroom was still mostly empty 'cept for his bed, his desk, and his dresser, which I guess had all been too big for him to fit in his Jeep when he'd moved all the rest of his stuff out. My room was the same—neat and ordered as it always was, save for the one drawer that I'd left open in my rush to pack my backpack the day of the fire.

The first thing I did was throw out all my pictures. I threw every letter and card and note that people had sent to me over the months into the same bag, and then tossed the whole thing in the dumpster. For awhile, I was tempted to throw all my books in there too, but I knew I couldn't do that, not after she'd—

Anyway, I kept them all in the box I'd sent them over from the hospital in, and I buried it in the back of my closet. After that, I thought I'd finally be able to get some sleep. I thought that not having to fall asleep next to that wall would make her disappear from my mind for good.

But as soon as I shut my eyes she was there, just like always. And honestly, even though it meant that I still wouldn't be able to sleep through the night without waking up screaming her name, I was really fucking relieved. Because as long as I could remember the sound of her voice, as long as I could remember the shape of her body and the touch of her fingers against my skin, I'd never really lose her. I'd never really have to let her go.

September 5th

She didn't know how lucky she was to be able to forget.

Given the option, I would. I'd forget my parents and my sister and my friends. I'd forget every word to every book I ever read. I'd forget all the places I'd seen and all the things I'd ever done. I'd forget the sports I played in high school, and all the trophies and awards I'd won. I'd forget my girlfriends and crushes and infatuations

I'd certainly forget the fucking fire, and everything that came after it. I'd forget the hospital and the surgeries and the therapies. I'd forget the pain and the drugs and the weakness. I'd forget every nurse and every doctor and every therapist and every patient I ever met, including—

No.

_No._

I'd forget everything else. But not her.

August 31st

I don't remember July.

I wouldn't have remembered August either, except for the changes to my physical therapy that made that particular month unforgettable.

It took a full ten minutes for me to be able to get my legs over the side of my bed. It took another fifteen minutes for my therapist to help me into a standing position. For the first three days, that's all the therapy consisted of. I just stood there and let the muscles in my right leg get used to supporting weight again. Even though I'd lost about forty pounds from being on my back for fucking months, the strain of standing up made me sweat and shake so hard that twice I would have collapsed if my therapist hadn't been there to catch me. I don't think I've ever felt so fucking helpless in my entire life.

It took me a full week before I was finally able to take my first step. It took another three weeks until I could walk ten feet—and that only with the use of a fucking walker. Honest to god, I didn't know if I felt more like a toddler or a ninety-year-old man.

By the time August was over, I was able to make it around my room at least without any problems. I could use the fucking bathroom and take a shower and brush my teeth at the sink like any normal person could.

But none of it really mattered in the end, 'cause the very same week that I started being able to move around again, my doctors scheduled me for another surgery—on my leg this time.

In September, I'd have to do it all again.

June 29th

She kept telling me I'd made a mistake. She kept telling me she missed me, and asking me why I wouldn't talk to her. She kept telling me that she was alone and scared and confused, and asking for my help. And no matter how much I tried to ignore her, she just wouldn't shut the hell up.

I dialed the volume on my television up louder and louder, until it was as loud as it could go, and I could _still_ hear her. In the end, I wound up throwing my remote at my TV, shattering them both in the process. And all that got me was a huge fucking bill from the hospital and an appointment with a psychiatrist. But she—she just kept talking.

I did, finally, figure out a way to get her to stop. I didn't want to do it, but it fucking had to be done, even if it meant doing something I'd been putting off ever since I woke up.

One night when my nurse brought me dinner, I asked him if he could find me a mirror. He brought a small, hand-held frame back with him when he came to clear away my untouched food. Of course, the whole time he was gone, she just kept right on talking to me—telling me that what I was planning wasn't going to work. But I fucking knew better. As soon as my nurse left my room, I turned up the lights as bright as they would go, and turned to the mirror to _really_ look at myself for the first time since the fire.

My reflection didn't really surprise me.

My eyes were sunken and tired, my face was sallow and worn. I could see the faint pattern of red scars that crept up out of my hospital gown along the left side of my neck. As I angled the mirror down towards my chest, I could see that, where my skin wasn't ravaged or bandaged from the burns, it was pale and sickly, and almost paper-thin. I looked exactly as I felt—like a fucking corpse. There was nothing left of me anymore, nothing even faintly recognizable as the person I'd once been.

I hadn't made a mistake. She didn't miss me; she _couldn't_ miss me—not when I looked like _that_.

The demon in my head that had assumed her voice went quiet then. Just like I knew it would.

June 18th

When I came back to my room after physical therapy and saw all my books stacked up on the floor like a fucking mausoleum for everything I'd lost, I knew she was gone.

Just seeing those books though, that wasn't enough to really make me snap. Instead, I'd just ignored them like I'd been ignoring _her_ for the past five days. Like, if I could just not see them, if I could just not hear her, nothing would really have changed.

It was only the next morning, when they brought a new patient into her room that I could feel the pressure begin to build inside of me. That whole day while I had to sit and listen to his strange and unfamiliar voice echoing through my wall, it got harder and harder for me to pretend that she wasn't really gone. Part of me kept expecting her to burst through my door and yell at me for ignoring her and sit stubbornly in my room until I agreed to talk to her again. It would have only taken minutes for me to give in. It'd been five days since we'd last spoken; I missed her already.

Of course, she never did come.

Instead, when the intruder in her room was getting ready for bed that night, he accidentally knocked his hand against my wall. And _that's_ when I fucking lost it.

Every memory I had of her came flooding to the front of my mind. Every word she'd ever spoken to me rang cacophonously in my ears. And when I heard it all again—when I heard her voice and her laughter and even her tears—I knew that I'd been the worst kind of fool.

Because I didn't just miss her, I _loved_ her.

And I'd never feel that again.


	10. by Such

**A/N: Here's Alice's POV. As brief reminder, we're moving forwards in time now, from when Alice left the hospital to the "present day."**

**Massive thanks go to Twila Reaux who has been a fantastic editor for these past two chapters. **

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

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**

Chapter Nine: _…by Such_

"_On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge   
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,   
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay—   
O I loved too much and by such, by such is happiness thrown away."   
~Patrick Kavanagh_, "_Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away" ("On Raglan Road")

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_

**APOV**

June 18th

I'd listened to his voice every day for six weeks. I knew every nuance, every subtle variation in tone and volume and pitch. I'd heard him lie to doctors and nurses; I'd heard him lie to his parents and his friends. But never to me. Never before that moment. I recognized it immediately though—the instant he told me he wasn't mad at me, I knew it wasn't true.

It was the same way I knew when he said 'goodnight' to me, that he was really saying 'goodbye.' Either way, it was the last thing he ever said to me. Just before midnight, he turned his television on so loudly that it made the walls tremble. The nurses did, eventually, tell him to turn it down. But it didn't matter—he'd already made his point.

The next morning a social worker came to "evaluate my progress." I answered her questions and took her tests without paying attention. But I must have said the right things regardless, since at the end of our session she proudly concluded that I was "fit to begin the process of controlled re-integration into society."

She legally changed my last name from "Doe" to "Brandon," which I can only assume she chose at random from some database of unwanted names. She filed the paperwork for a state ID card and a new social security number. She collected donations from the local Goodwill and Salvation Army so that I'd have clothes and furniture and toiletries. And on the fourth day since our first meeting, she showed up ready to drive me to the "assisted living" facility that was to be my new home.

But I had one thing I had to take care of first.

I waited until he'd gone to physical therapy to return his books. It was strange—seeing his room in the daytime. It felt profane, obscene, like I was violating some sort of sacred space. And even though the light made it easier for me to see what I was doing, part of me wished I'd been able to do it in the dark. Seeing the empty bed, the empty chairs, the empty room… it just magnified the depth of empty space I already had inside of me.

When I'd finally moved everything back, I searched through the books until I found the one that held the picture of his sister. I placed my bracelet in between the same two pages, and then returned the book to the middle of one of the stacks. If he never found it, then fine. If he found it and decided to throw it away or smash it or pull it apart, then that would be fine as well. I just figured that, since I was already leaving so much behind me in that room, I might as well leave the last little piece of me as well.

After all, without my mind or my heart or my soul—what did I need a name for anyway?

June 23rd

I knew black and white. I knew every varying shade and tint of gray. I knew the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. I knew what it was like to stare at the same four walls for months on end; I knew what linoleum felt like beneath my bare feet; I knew what coarse blankets felt like against my skin. I knew the precise pitch of a heart rate monitor and the exact sound my bed made every time I pushed the little button that raised it up or down.

But I'd never felt the sun. I'd never smelled asphalt or gasoline or trees or mulch. I'd never listened to the wind whistle in my ears, or a plane fly directly over my head. I'd never heard a dog bark or a bird sing or a baby cry. I'd never seen the world in so much _color_.

It terrified me.

For the first two days that I was out of the hospital, I stayed locked in my room. I didn't turn on the lights, I didn't talk to anyone; I didn't even get out of bed unless I had to eat or use the bathroom. The world was too bright, too loud, too _big_.

On the morning of the third day I worked up enough courage to go out into the hallway. It took me the rest of the day to make my way downstairs.

By the fourth day I was able to start talking to some of the other residents of the facility. They were nice actually—most everyone I met was kind and helpful and understanding, even though I'm sure they all had stories that were every bit as sad as mine. But I guess that was one thing that drew us all together—none of us wanted to talk about our pasts.

By the fifth evening, I felt pretty comfortable in my new home. The colors didn't seem so bright, the smells didn't seem so unfamiliar, the hardwood floor and open air didn't feel so strange. But my ears—my ears just wouldn't adjust. Every sound still sounded so harsh, so loud, so grating. I found it difficult to even carry on a conversation without getting a splitting headache from the noise.

So most of the time I just kept to myself. I stayed in my room and closed my eyes and pretended I was back in the hospital, listening to the only voice my ears could still stand to hear.

July 7th

I wasn't qualified to do anything. I could read and write, sure, but as far as the State was concerned, I'd never _read_ and I'd never _written_—at least not the kinds of things that would earn me a degree. So it took awhile for my social worker to come up with something for me to do.

I bussed tables at a restaurant for a few days. But everything was too loud there, and after about the fourth time the manager found me huddled in a corner in the back of the kitchen with my hands pressed tightly against my ears, we reached a mutual agreement that the restaurant business wasn't the place for me.

I don't know what my social worker was thinking when she suggested a job at the train station. To be completely honest, I don't know what _I_ was thinking when I accepted. I guess we both thought that trains and busses were so different that it wouldn't really matter.

But even though my mind had no memory of the accident, my body didn't forget so easily. Every time a train would pull into the station my limbs would freeze and my throat would clench so tightly that I could hardly breathe. It didn't do much good for the commuters to try and hand their tickets to a petrified statue, so my stint as a Philadelphia Transit employee only lasted for one day.

I finally ended up getting a job at one of the hotels in town. Every day I cleaned towels and made beds and scrubbed floors and toilets and sinks. It wasn't glamorous, I know. But it was quiet and solitary, and it didn't trigger any embarrassing reactions in my body or lungs. So I made do.

Besides, I'd made enough messes in my life that it was only fitting that I should have to clean up after others.

July 26th

I discovered that I liked to draw. It started out fairly harmless—if I was without something to do during a break, or if I got bored at home, I'd sketch interesting people I'd seen in the hotel, or my favorite places I'd visited in the city. It took a little practice, but it was similar to learning how to walk again—somewhere in the back of my mind, I already knew what to do—I just had to get my muscles working again.

The better I got at it, the more elaborate my drawings became. Whenever I wasn't working, I'd carry a pad of paper around with me and sketch anything I saw—from the trees in the park to the clothes in the shop windows that I could never afford. I sketched the Liberty Bell and the waterfront and the animals in the zoo. By the time I'd been at it for a month, I already had a hundred pictures tacked up on the walls of my room.

I sketched _him_ too. Obviously, I couldn't draw what he _looked_ like, since I'd never really seen him in the light. So instead, I sketched the little pieces of him that I could remember.

I drew a field full of wheat because it reminded me of the way he smelled. I drew the sun setting over an ocean because it reminded me of the deep, rich tones of his voice. And I drew a flower—one of the yellow ones that looked like two conjoined suns that I'd had in my hospital room—because that was exactly the way his skin had felt beneath my fingers: soft, fragile, beautiful.

But none of these drawings made it up onto my wall; I ripped them all up the moment they were complete.

None of those things were mine.

August 27th

I testified at her trial.

When the lawyer asked me questions about the aftermath of the accident, I didn't even bother looking at him. Instead, I looked directly into that woman's eyes and I told her how she'd ruined my life.

I told her about every single pain I'd woken up to. I told her about every operation I'd had, every bone the doctors had had to pin back into place, and every stitch they'd used to sew me up again. I told her about the months of rehab and physical therapy, and how I'd never be able to look down at my body again without seeing the reminders of what she'd done to me. And finally, I told her how I'd never be able to remember my birthdays, my vacations, my siblings, my parents, or my friends, because they all belonged to a person whose life had ended the moment that car had struck my bus.

By the time I finished, she was crying. And honestly, it made me feel kind of good that I'd made her suffer even just a little bit. Because, like I said all those months ago, the families that lost people in the accident—they'd be suffering for the rest of their lives.

But me, I didn't shed a single tear. Everything I'd said in that courtroom was true; every pain I'd described was completely accurate. But I'd learned to deal with all of that long ago, and it no longer affected me to have to talk about it.

There was, however, a part of the story that I couldn't bring myself to tell, even though, to me at least, it was her worst crime of all.

I didn't tell her how I'd actually had to start my life over again twice because of her: once when I lost my memory, and once when I lost everything else.

September 23rd

I couldn't remember ever being sick before, so I didn't know what was happening to me until one of the girls from down the hall heard me coughing and brought me some medicine. I was slightly reassured when she told me it was probably just the flu, and that it would go away on its own after a few days.

She was right, of course. I did eventually get better. But the three days that I spent in bed were miserable. At times, the coughing was so bad that it almost felt like I was drowning in my own lungs. My throat felt like it was made of gravel that rubbed together every time I tried to swallow. My stomach churned, I was incessantly tired, and every time I moved my entire body ached.

As I lay there, shivering despite the fact that my skin felt like it was on fire, I couldn't help but wonder if this was how _he_ felt when I—

"_It burns."_

No wonder he pushed me away.

November 3rd

I saw the fireworks from the Schuylkill in July. I saw them again in October when the wind blew all the fire-colored leaves down off the trees

But things can't go on burning forever. By November, everything was brown and bare.

November 30th

Sometimes I sit and watch the sunrise and wonder if he knows


	11. Six Impossible Things

**A/N: I have to thank my fantastic friend Twila Reaux once again for taking the time to look at this and make it readable. She has a new--WONDERFUL--one shot up about canon Alice and Jasper called "Because of You." I promise that it will make you look at those two characters in new and enlightening ways. It's under my favorites, so seriously. Go. check. it. out.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Chapter Ten: _Six Impossible Things_

"_Alice laughed: 'There's no use trying,' she said; 'one _can't_ believe impossible things.'  
'__I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.'"  
__~Lewis Carroll, __Through the Looking Glass_

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**APOV**

"'Morning Alice."

I round the corner to the living room to see one of my hall-mates sitting on a couch in front of the TV. I frown slightly at her use of my name. I'm friendly with the people here whenever we happen to meet in common areas of the house like this, but by no means am I _friends_ with any of them. Certainly, I've never taken the time or effort it would require to get to know them all by name.

"Hey," I return, smiling emptily as I hurry past her into the hallway. I don't really mean to be rude, it's just that friendships formed out of convenience rather than mutual liking… well, they haven't worked out for me so well in the past. And plus, thanks to oversleeping my alarm this morning, I'm already running terribly late.

I pull my coat, hat, and gloves out the hall closet and quickly layer up for the onslaught of cold air I'm about to face. I don't mind it actually. I was glad when the seasons started to change and we were no longer trapped in the heat and humidity of a Philadelphia summer. The forty-five minutes it takes me to walk to work seems somehow shorter these days—probably 'cause I'm not sweating and panting the whole way there.

Once I'm bundled up I sling my tattered backpack over my shoulder and step out into the crisp winter sunshine. I inhale deeply, letting the icy air fill my lungs. It's cool, it's refreshing, it's invigorating. If it weren't for how ugly everything looks this time of year, winter would definitely be my favorite season.

I begin to make my way down the front porch steps, but as soon I reach the sidewalk, I feel a dull, familiar ache in my hip. I groan inwardly as I turn and jog back up the stairs. It's going to make me even more late than I already am, sure, but this day has already started out so poorly that a few more seconds worth of tardiness really isn't going to change much.

"Forget something?" my hall mate calls as I re-enter the house and begin digging through the hall closet again. I search blindly through the mess until my fingers finally find the object I'm looking for.

"It's gonna rain," I say simply, turning around and holding the umbrella out for her to see.

She furrows her brow as she looks out the window at the perfectly clear sky, and then turns back at me incredulously.

"You sure?"

"Trust me," I say confidently as I shove the umbrella into my backpack. I learned long ago that the fractures in my bones are better forecasters of impending storms than any weatherman could hope to be. My boss may yell at me for showing up late to work, but I'm certainly not going to regret coming back in for the umbrella when I'm walking home in the rain.

As if in confirmation of my body's predictions, an icy wind whips against my skin the moment I step back outside. I cross my arms tightly across my chest and duck my head down as I make my way quickly down the steps and out onto the sidewalk.

I walk towards the hotel, keeping my eyes focused on the ground in front of me so that I can avoid looking at the Christmas decorations that are beginning to appear on all the houses. For obvious reasons, holidays really aren't occasions I can find it within myself to get excited about. Thankfully, the neighborhood kids knew better than to come trick-or-treating at our door during Halloween. And Thanksgiving for the residents of 5210 Market Street consisted of consuming turkey sandwiches and potato chips while watching the Eagles play the Cardinals on TV. But somehow I doubt that Christmas will pass me by so harmlessly.

It's not that I object to Christmas as an _idea_. The Christmas message is certainly an admirable one, and the bright green and red and gold colors that line every lamppost and window definitely make up for some of the barrenness of the winter season. But Christmas, more than any other holiday, is clearly about home and comfort and family—three things that I don't have. And the less I have to be reminded of that, the better.

Unfortunately, I can't avoid these reminders forever. When I reach the Sheraton I see that the doors have been decorated overnight, and are now sporting two great, huge wreaths. I walk inside to discover that the lobby is even worse: the long, twisted staircases are rimmed with garlands, the front desk is decorated with red velvety bows, and in the middle of everything sits a two-storey-tall, intricately decorated tree.

_Perfect._

I sigh and make my way to the staff lounge to get my assignments for the day. I'm so late that my manager Terri (whose name I can only manage to remember because our uniform requires that we all wear nametags) is the only person still in the room by the time I arrive. As soon as she sees me, her face constricts into a frown.

_This day is just getting better and better._

"Alice? What are you—"

"I'm so sorry," I cut her off as I rip off my coat and throw it carelessly onto the rack by the door. "I was running late and then I forgot something at home and I had to go back for it. I promise it won't happen again."

Terri crosses her arms in front of her and raises her eyebrows at me in both annoyance and amusement. "Are you done?" she asks. I nod in response. "Good. What I was _going_ to ask you is what you're doing here. You're off today."

"What?" I ask, shifting my eyes to the large schedule hanging on the wall behind her, "That's impossible!" I _always_ write down my schedule the day it's posted. I've never come in on the wrong day, I've never missed a day—heck, I've never even been _late_ until today. She must have made a mistake.

Terri steps aside so I can better see the schedule, and sure enough under my name and today's date are printed the letters O-F-F. To add even further insult to injury, it's even written in bold. _Crap._

"Can't I just work today instead?" I ask, already knowing what her answer will be. "I mean, since I'm already here and—"

Terri frowns again and shakes her head. "Sorry, Alice. We have a big turnover tonight and we'll definitely be needing you tomorrow."

Yeah, Terri's pretty notorious for being anal when it comes to scheduling. I drop my shoulders and mumble 'goodbye,' to which she responds with an overenthusiastic 'see you tomorrow!' Scowling to myself, I throw on my coat and head dejectedly back out into the lobby. It's not even 9:30 yet, and already I've managed to screw up my entire day. I almost kick that stupid Christmas tree as I make my way past it, but decide against it at the last minute. With the way this day has gone so far, it'd probably just fall over on me anyway.

For the third time this morning, I step out into the cold. My feet instinctively begin carrying me back towards the house, but after about a block I stop. Usually I spend my free days running errands or finding new people or locations to draw. Why should today be any different? The Sheraton sits directly in between two universities: Drexel and U Penn. I've never been to either, and today seems like as good a time as any. I've ruined my morning, but maybe, with a little luck, I'll be able to salvage my afternoon.

I make my way back past the hotel and onto the U Penn campus. It's old here, just like the rest of the city. Everything is red-gray brick, and stained-glass windows, and high, pointed roofs. It's the kind of place where I'm afraid to even step off the sidewalk 'cause in doing so I might destroy some hundred-year-old blade of historically significant grass. With all the statues and plaques they have around this place, it feels more like walking through an open-air museum than walking around a fully functioning college campus.

I wander around for a while, trying to find an empty bench or table to sit on. But before I can find anything, a cloud passes in front of the sun in the sky. In the same instant, like some sort of fated coincidence, my hip begins to throb again, reminding me that bad weather is coming. So I decide it's probably best if I find an indoor locale to work from.

It doesn't take me long to locate a restaurant across the street from the school. A small bell over the door jingles when I enter, and seconds later a bored-looking hostess appears to show me to my table.

"Would it be possible to sit by the window?" I ask when she starts to lead me towards the rear of the restaurant. She turns around and rolls her eyes condescendingly.

"Those booths are reserved for parties of two or more," she says, her voice matching her body language. Normally this kind of thing wouldn't irritate me—I'd just sit alone wherever she put me and sketch the walls or something. But her patronizing tone coupled with my lingering bad mood prompts me to argue with her until I get what I want.

"I'm waiting for someone," I say, placing my hands on my hips and quirking an eyebrow at her. We both know it's a lie. But hidden behind my words is an implicit threat to ask for her manager if she doesn't give me what I want. You don't work in the hospitality industry for five months without picking up a few tips about customer service after all.

"Okay, sure," she agrees finally, the "sure" being an acknowledgement of both my lie and my slight position of power over her. She turns on her heel and leads me over to one of the empty booths next to the window. "Your server will be right with you," she sneers as she all but throws the menu at me.

I frown at her back before removing my bag from my shoulders and settling into my seat. Despite the relative warmth of the restaurant, I leave my coat on. The hideous lime-green color of my work uniform always makes me stand out in public places, and with the hostess already out to get me, it's probably best that I try to blend in as much as possible. I fish my sketchpad out of my bag, and am in the middle of digging for an ever-elusive pencil when I hear a male voice speaking at my side. I look up and see a dark-haired waiter smiling down at me amusedly.

"Ummm… what?" I ask, a little flustered from his sudden proximity.

"I _said_, 'my name is Kevin and I'll be your server today,'" the man—Kevin—laughs, tapping his pencil against the pad of paper in his hand. "Can I get you something to drink?"

I know it's impolite to stare, but something about Kevin's face makes it impossible for me to tear my eyes away. I don't normally notice men, but even _I_ can tell that he's dangerously good looking. He has short jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and beautifully tan skin. And yet, none of these are what keep my eyes focused on his face. There's something else about him… something at once familiar and foreign, comforting and strange…

"Ma'am?" he asks, raising his eyebrow expectantly.

"Ummm… just a water," I say, forcing myself to divert my eyes.

"Just a water," he confirms as he makes a note on his pad of paper. "And have you decided on what you'd like to eat?"

I haven't even looked at the menu. But, at the risk of being caught shamelessly staring at him again, I figure it's best to get all conversation out of the way now. I pick up the menu and point to the first thing under the 'sandwich' heading. "I'll have that," I say, as I tilt the menu up for him to see.

"One water and one cheese steak. How very original of you," he teases as he takes the menu from my hand. "And your friend?" he asks, gesturing towards the empty place across from me. I can tell from the joking tone in his voice that he's not trying to be mean—he's just trying to play along with my charade.

"Just another water for now," I say, smiling slightly.

"Two waters," he says, nodding, before walking away to fill my order. Seconds later he returns with the drinks, and winks at me before placing the second one down across the table from me. And when the corners of his mouth lift up into a smile again, that same feeling I had earlier of something between intense attraction and unsettling dis-ease returns.

I try to ignore it by turning my attention to the view from the window and beginning to sketch the skyline of the campus across the street. But it's no use: I can't concentrate. For whatever reason, all I can think about is my stupid waiter. I sigh and flip to a clean sheet in my sketchpad to begin drawing his face, hoping that getting him out of my head and onto paper will erase him from my mind entirely. I work quickly, trying to take down everything I remember from my brief but embarrassing ogling session, and filling in the rest with my imagination.

I find myself paying unnecessarily close attention to his lips. I've only ever seen them raised into a smile, but for some reason they don't even begin to look right until I sketch them into a frown. And even then I have to keep tracing and retracing and shading and re-shading until they begin to look even remotely like the lips I'm aiming for. I'm so absorbed in drawing his mouth that I don't even notice that he's standing next to me again until he sets down my food on the table next to me. I quickly attempt to cover up the drawing with my hands, but by then of course, it's too late.

"Don't cover it up," he says, nodding his head towards the incriminating evidence beneath my fingers, "that's really good." To my immense surprise, he doesn't seem at all shocked by what I've drawn—like strange girls walk into the restaurant and shamelessly sketch him every day. He doesn't laugh or even smirk at me as he tilts his head to the side to examine the half-covered portrait. "Who is it?" he finally asks.

I have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. Am I really that horrible that he can't even recognize his own face? _Ha! And all this time I really thought I was actually pretty good at this. That'll teach me to think—_

My thoughts trail off as he bends closer to the drawing to get a better look. With his face right there, in perfect juxtaposition with the face I've drawn, I see how very far off my representation actually is. Except for a slight similarity in the shape of the lips, the two faces look absolutely nothing alike. The one bending over the table is a complete stranger, but the one I've sketched on the paper—that's one I see every night in the darkness of my dreams.

_Jasper_.

Quickly, I rip the page from my sketchbook and crumple it in my hands. "It's no one," I say when Kevin looks up at me, obviously confused. "Do you think you can throw this out for me?" I ask, holding the little ball I've made out to him like an offering.

"Are you sure? It's really good and—"

"I'm sure," I say, almost panicking as I continue to thrust the paper at him, wanting, _needing_ to get it out of my sight as soon as possible. I feel my palms beginning to sweat and my heart beginning to race the longer I have to hold that stupid drawing in my hands. Finally sensing my desperation, Kevin nods, takes the picture from my hand, and walks quickly back towards the kitchen—probably already writing me off as at least partially insane.

_And, well, maybe I am._

It's been nearly six months since I left the hospital, but I still think about Jasper all the time. I hear him speaking to me while I lie awake in bed at night. I hear hints and whispers of his voice when I pass strangers talking to each other on the street. I can't walk past a library or a hospital without feeling him next to me. My heart still aches every time I think his name. The night I touched him recurs relentlessly in my dreams—an insistent reminder of the mistake that took him from me. And now I'm _seeing_ him in other peoples' faces as well? Truly, I must be going mad.

I push my plate of food to the side and place my sketchpad on the table in front of me, determined to get Jasper out of my mind. I look out the window and shakily begin to sketch the building across the street. It's clearly newer than many of the rest of the buildings on campus—it has hundreds of windows, the bottom floor is completely made of glass, and the upper floors are supported by large, concrete columns. The whole façade of the thing is so redundant that I can't even tell if I'm looking at the front or the back of it. That's good; it's exactly what I need. Cold, ugly, inhuman.

I let my food grow cold as I work to make my sketch as accurate as possible. I feel my heart rate slowly return to normal and my hand begin to steady as I focus more and more intently on the inanimate object across the street. By the time I've finished the sketch, I've completely forgotten why I started it in the first place.

I write today's date next to my signature at the bottom of the picture, and then strain my eyes against the rapidly-darkening sky to see if I can make out a name anywhere on the building. When I can't find one, I turn to a girl sitting alone at a table across the aisle from me and ask her if she knows what the building is called.

"Oh that?" she says, looking out the window at where I'm pointing, "that's Van Pelt." I write the name in quotes at the top of my page and turn back to thank her. But before the words can leave my mouth she adds, "it's the library."

_Seriously?_

_Why does everything I do have to point to him? Why can't I just forget him like I've forgotten everything else that ever mattered in my life? Why does he have to be the one thing that still lingers incessantly in my mind? Why can't I just let him go?_

Thankfully the girl turns back to her meal before she gets a chance to see the frustrated tears that begin welling up in my eyes. For once the weather outside cooperates cathartically with the emotions building inside of me—as soon as the first traitor tears spill over, the skies open and the rain begins to fall in heavy sheets. I drop my head into my arms and listen to the sound of the rain drumming against the window, feeling for the first time in my life like the universe understands my pain.

I don't know how long I sit like that, but it can't be long, and, thankfully, I can't have been crying that loudly, 'cause when I look up the girl at the table across from me is still working on her meal. I sniff quietly and wipe my eyes on my otherwise unused napkin before ripping the tear-stained drawing out of my sketchpad, crumpling it into another ball, and dropping it to the floor. I shove my sketchbook and pencil into my backpack, deciding that I've had just about enough drawing for today.

"You didn't touch your meal," Kevin observes when he makes his way back to my table a few minutes later. "Wasn't it any good?"

"It was fine," I tell him, only barely attempting to smile, "it just turns out I wasn't hungry after all."

"Do you want me to put it in a to-go box for you?"

I nod at him indifferently as he reaches across the table and takes my plate. And then, for no reason whatsoever, he begins to laugh. I scowl at him as he straightens up and smiles down at me.

"You know, now might be a good time to tell your friend to come inside," he says, smirking knowingly.

I look up towards the door and see that there's a small line of people beginning to form in front of the hostess' podium. The hostess herself openly glares at me before leading a party of four to one of the less-desirable tables at the back of the restaurant. I sigh and turn my attention back to Kevin. "I'm leaving anyway. Can't you just tell her to be patient for a minute?"

Kevin's face scrunches together in confusion as he looks towards the hostess and then back at me. "No, that's not what I meant. No one's telling you to leave. It's just… I mean… Well, he's getting pretty wet just standing out there, is all I'm saying," Kevin says, still being infuriatingly, and most likely _purposefully_ vague.

"What are you _talking_ about?" I say, getting a little annoyed now. "Who's getting wet standing out—"

Kevin interrupts me simply by inclining his head towards the window. "Your friend—the guy from the drawing? I assume he's out there waiting for _you_."

My head snaps towards the window before my mind has a chance to talk me out of believing. And in the seconds that pass before my eyes can focus on the figure standing out in the driving rain, six months worth of missing, six months worth of needing, six months worth of wanting, are suddenly erased from my body, replaced entirely with one moment's worth of impossible hope.

***

**JPOV**

Dammit, I told her I could drive. It only takes one hand and one foot to drive a fucking automatic, and I happen to be able to use both my right hand _and_ my right foot quite well, thank you very much. But no, the stupid lawyer at the hospital had my goddamn license revoked until the "successful completion of my physical therapy." And so now I'm standing out here in the middle of the sidewalk, getting soaked by the fucking rain.

I could just as easily blame my physical therapist for insisting that I take the metro to our twice-weekly appointments. She sees it as a way to ensure that I get some exercise each week—a way to keep my skin from getting too tight. I see it as a goddamn hassle. I mean, seriously. Why would I want to walk to the metro when I could just as easily call a cab to pick me up? But, because I'm a compliant idiot, I've walked the eight hundred and fifty-three steps from my front door to the station every Monday and Thursday for the past six weeks including, of course, today. And what do I have to show for all my efforts? Fucking blisters on my toes from the strange ways my feet now rub against my shoes. And probably, at this point, a fucking cold as well.

Screw it. There's no way I'm going to therapy today: not when I'm standing out here looking like a drowned cat. But—_fuck_—it's cold, and even though it's only three blocks back to my apartment, it's going to take forever for me to get there at the snails' pace I usually move at. I may as well try'n find a place where I can wait out the storm.

And so it's official—today can't possibly get any worse. As if having to wake up to the same old pain, the same old aching, and the same old longing weren't enough—as if being caught helplessly in the rain 'cause I don't have enough good hands to hold both an umbrella and a fucking cane weren't enough—I now have to go into a public place and be stared at by people who don't ache, who don't hurt—who have two perfectly good hands.

_C'mon, Jasper, it can't be raining __that__ hard. Surely you can suck it up and make it—_

Before I can finish my thought the wind picks up and the rain drives down harder, forcing me to duck my head into the collar of my jacket to keep the pelting drops from hitting me squarely in my eyes. I hunch my shoulders in defeat and begin walking reluctantly towards campus. I haven't been back to school since my release from the hospital, and I'm sure as hell not going to deal with that crap today. But there's a little restaurant just down the street that I at least know to have dim lighting and halfway decent food. And at 11:30 on a Monday morning, it probably won't be too full yet, so I may have a chance of being able to sit and wait in peace.

Though, since this day is utterly craptastic, all my hopes are dashed when I walk up to the restaurant. Even through the blurriness of the rain-streaked windows I can tell that it's fucking packed. Apparently everyone else in Philadelphia has the same fucking idea as I do. For a minute, I just stand there in the rain, contemplating again whether it's really worth all the fucking stares I'm bound to get. But just like it did before, an icy blast of wind spits rain directly into my face, reminding me why it's completely fucking ridiculous for me to continue standing out in this weather. So I shove my left hand deeply into my jacket pocket and make my way inside.

Naturally, there's a line. I take my place at the back of it and carefully unzip my wet coat, trying very hard to not splatter rain on any of the other customers in the process. I shiver as warm, stuffy air of the restaurant soaks into the exposed skin of my neck and face. This whole day has just been one huge reminder of how much I really fucking hate the cold. I'm seriously finding it hard to remember how I ever thought that coming to school in this ungodly ugly place was a good idea.

I take a step forward as the line in front of me moves. I glance around the place while I wait, trying to see if there are any available tables towards the back. _Ah, yes_, I think to myself as I spot a little bistro table against the far wall, _that'll be just—_

"Excuse me, sir?" I turn to see a waiter standing next to me, and raise my eyebrow in answer to his question. "I believe your party's over this way," he says, gesturing for me to follow him towards a collection of booths at the windows.

I shake my head. "My party? I don't… I'm not here with anyone. I—"

"Please sir," he insists, still motioning for me to follow him, "I think she's been waiting for you for awhile."

"I'm sorry," I say tersely, starting to get a bit annoyed at all the misplaced attention he's bestowing on me, "You have me confused with someone else."

I turn my body away from him, and for a moment, it seems that he's gotten the message. But when the line ahead of me moves forward and I try to follow suit, I feel his hand grab my right arm to restrain me. I whirl around to face him, anger positively leaking from every pore in my body.

"Listen!" I hiss as I shrug his hand from my arm, "If you ever fucking touch me again I swear to God… I'll…"

…

My words get lost in my throat as my eyes finally focus on the girl standing at my elbow. Breathing, thinking, _feeling_ all stop as a great wave of numbness envelops my entire body. Old and familiar instincts that simultaneously tell me to run away and stay firmly planted where I stand pull at my heart. The feelings are at once so strong and so dichotomous that I can't _do_ anything. I can't move. I can't even breathe. I can only stand frozen where I am and stare down at the girl standing next to me.

She'd closed her eyes the moment I'd started yelling at her, but other than that, she hasn't moved either. She just stands there with her arm still partially extended towards me, looking as frozen as I know myself to be. Slowly—_excruciatingly slowly_—the fog around my mind begins to thaw and pieces of sentences come floating up to the surface.

_unthinkable imagining cant be dont believe dont not her false hope impossible_

I fight hard to clear away the remainder of the numbness from my body, and finally regain both my breathing and the use of my limbs. As soon as I can move, I step backwards, away from her.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice tight and strained, "I think there's been a…"

The girl's mouth pulls into a small smile that again stops me before I can finish my sentence. My hands begin to shake when I see her lips part in preparation to speak. For one instant, I almost clamp my hand over her mouth. If it's not _her_, then I don't want to hear it. If it _is_ her, then I don't know if I can _stand_ to hear it. Not now, not after everything that I've been through. Not after I've worked so hard to—

"Hello, Jasper."

_sweet jesus_

Her large, brown eyes slowly open to meet mine. When they do, I can tell instantly that all my previous fears were absolutely unfounded. Despite the fact that everything about _her_ is flawless and beautiful and complete, when she looks at _me, _nothing in her eyes even suggests a _hint_ of disgust or revulsion, or even disappointment.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles up at me with the most serene, adorable smile I think I've ever seen. No, fuck that. I _know_ I've never seen anything more wonderful, more amazing, more extraordinarily beautiful than the woman standing in front of me right now.

_Alice._

Even in my dreams I never imagined she'd look like this. Her voice to me always reminded me—_still reminds me!—_of the way stars glisten in the sky at night. Looking at her now—seeing her bright face, her pale skin, her inhumanly perfect shape—I now know that her voice isn't the only part of her that belongs to heaven. Everything about her suggests the quality of an angel. Seeing her in this moment, it's like the last six months haven't even happened. I love her now just the same as I did the day she left the hospital. Hell, if it's even possible… I think I love her _more._

"Um, excuse me, is there a problem here?" A woman's shrill voice cuts into my thoughts. I don't even have it in me to turn towards the sound, afraid that if I take my eyes off of her, she might disappear altogether. Alice doesn't look away either, even as she answers the woman's question.

"No problem" –_holy fuck, it's good to hear her voice again_—"this is my friend," she says, nodding towards me and shooting me some sort of knowing smile. I'm not really sure what _that's_ supposed to mean.

"Well," the woman continues, "could you and your _friend_ please stop blocking the doorway? You're creating a fire hazard."

_A fucking fire hazard? _For the second time today I turn around with the intention of knocking someone's fucking head off; for the second time today, Alice's hand stops me. "Of course," she says, releasing my arm immediately when I turn back around to face her, "we'll go sit down."

I shoot the woman one final glare before I follow Alice towards the cluster of booths by the window. When we reach the one she's apparently been sitting at, I slowly lower myself into the seat across from her, wincing heavily at the stiffness in my joints. My eyes snap open again when I realize that for the first time, Alice can see _everything_. I haven't removed my coat yet, so she probably can't see many of the scars. But she can see my limp, she can see the thin compression suit peeking out underneath my shirt, she can see how it pains me to do even the simplest of things like walking or sitting down.

_Fuck. What was I thinking following her over here like this?_

But when my eyes open, I see that she's not even looking at me. Instead, she's staring down at her hands which are folded together on the table. Instantly, all of my concern for myself is replaced with concern for her.

"What's wrong?" I ask anxiously when I notice how white her knuckles are becoming from her tightness of her grasp. She doesn't look up at me at all; she just sits there looking at her hands like they're stained with blood or something.

"I… I didn't mean to… when I grabbed you it was only because… I'm sorry…" she finally stutters out.

It takes me a moment to piece her fragments together. My heart sinks when I finally realize that she thinks I'm _mad_ at her. As if I have any fucking right to be mad at her. If anything, I'm surprised that she hasn't lashed out at _me_ yet. She's the only one who's got any reason to be pissed off here. I had my reasons for ignoring her during her last days at the hospital. But after everything she did for me, after everything she meant to me—to not even say _goodbye_ to her? That was a fucking worthless thing to do.

And plus, any and all reasons I had for pushing her away from me went out the fucking window the minute I realized I was in love with her. With them went all the fucking excuses I'd been using to convince myself that I was keeping her at a distance for _her own good_. Most of the time I'd known her I'd been a complete and total ass to her for no reason except for my own insecurities. And she's sitting here apologizing to _me?_

I lower my eyes, feeling completely fucking ashamed and unworthy to be sitting here with her right now.

"You didn't fucking hurt me," I mumble, more to myself than to her. But of course she hears me, and I watch as her hands clench even more tightly together at my tone. I've never seen this. I've never seen what my words do to her or how she reacts to what I say. In the darkness of my hospital room, it was always easy to imagine her smiling or relaxing no matter what words came out of my mouth. But now, here, seeing her hurt herself over something I've said… it's unbearable to watch. Without stopping to consider the consequences, I quickly reach out and grasp her tiny hands, easily holding both of them in only one of my own.

How the hell is it that after all these months, I still feel that same cool fire burning within me the moment our hands meet? How is it that her touch still sends electrifying tremors throughout my entire body? And why, after all my surgeries and all my time in that stupid hospital and in therapy, is it only in _this moment_ that I actually feel like I'm beginning to heal?

I shift my gaze from the table to our conjoined hands, half expecting to see visible flames dancing out from between them. But instead, all I see are Alice's fingers beginning to regain their pale-pink color as they relax minutely beneath my touch. And while it's impossible for me to imagine that she might be feeling anywhere close to the same thing I am, she must be feeling _something_, because when I raise my eyes to look at her face, I can see that she's smiling.

And I'll be damned if seeing that doesn't make me smile a little too.

"Can I get you anything?" I release Alice's hands instinctively as I turn around to see the same waiter from before standing over the two of us, grinning like a fucking idiot. I lean back in my seat and glare up at him, pretty fucking pissed that he's just ruined the first moment of peace I've felt in fucking forever. If he notices my rudeness, however, he doesn't show it. Instead, he just stands there, waiting for me to say something.

"Just the water's fine," I finally tell him. He nods at me, and walks away before Alice even has a chance to order anything. I'm about to call him back and tell him off for being such an impolite ass when Alice places a to-go box in front of me on the table.

"It's a little cold," she says, "but you're welcome to it if you want it. I don't even like cheese steak. I don't know why I ordered it."

The waiter's words from earlier suddenly flash in my mind. _"I think she's been waiting for you for awhile."_ How long had Alice been sitting here before I showed up? And… what? Had she somehow known I was coming?

"Alice," I say, completely ignoring the fucking delicious-smelling food she's just placed in front of me, "How did you--? I mean, how… What are you doing here?"

She blushes inexplicably and drops her gaze down towards the table. "I could ask the same thing of you," she says quietly.

"I _live_ here," I remind her gently, really fucking wishing she wouldn't hide the face I've been longing for so many months to see. Fortunately, something about my response causes her to smile and look up at me again.

"So do I," she says, laughing. _Holy shit, I've missed that._ But the sound of her laughter only distracts me for a moment before my mind wraps itself around her statement. _She lives here? In Philadelphia? Why?_

"Don't look so confused," she says, answering my unspoken question. "Honestly, Jasper, where else would I go?"

_Anywhere but here?_ New York, L.A., Florida, D.C.—anywhere but this dirty, cold, worthless place? Sunshine, oceans, big cities, bright lights—all of those belong to people like Alice. What on earth could she possibly get from living in a city like this?

"The world's a big place," she continues softly, dropping her head down into her arms, "I thought it would be best to stick to the little part of it that I knew."

Seeing her with her head cradled in her arms like that, I'm suddenly reminded of the last night we spent together. She'd sat like that then, too. And that night I'd had the same urge I do now to gather her to me and tell her that everything will be fine. To comfort her and protect her, and swear to never let anything happen to her. But just like the last time my self-consciousness gets the best of me, and instead of reaching out to her, I simply change the subject.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

My question makes her head shoot up out of her arms—a plus—but also makes her blush the deepest shade of red I think I've ever seen in someone's face—a minus. I didn't want to embarrass the girl—I was just curious.

"I didn't," she says quickly, looking me straight in my eyes. "Please don't think I've been following you or anything. I had no idea you'd be here today. I work up the street and I came in on the wrong day and I wanted to draw the campus but it started to rain so I came in here and then I saw you standing outside but I didn't know it was you until you came inside and even then I wasn't sure until you spoke and—" She trails off when she notices the amused smile that's slowing creeping across my face.

I remember this. I remember how rushed and incoherent she gets when something excites or embarrasses her. And just like her laughter, I've missed it immensely. I've missed everything about her—even the parts of her that I didn't even know, that I hadn't even seen yet. The curves of her small body, the exact color of her dark brown hair, the soft ovals of her eyes—I've missed all of that. How on earth could I have been fucking stupid enough to give all that up?

Like some fucking karmic retribution for all the joy I've been feeling over the past few minutes, my phone begins vibrating loudly in my pocket. I pull it out to look at the number and recognize it instantly as my physical therapist's. I want to smash the phone through the fucking window, but knowing how fucking relentless my therapist is, she'd probably find a way to keep calling. I apologize to Alice with my eyes and hold the phone up to my ear.

"What?"

"Mr. Whitlock," she starts, her high, nasally voice already giving me a fucking headache, "did you forget you had an appointment today?"

"No," I say, frowning at her obviously rhetorical question, "I got caught in the rain and the—"

"The metro still runs in the rain," she reminds me sarcastically. "If you don't keep your therapy appointments then your insurance won't continue to pay for your reconstructive surgeries. And even worse, a skipped appointment can be detrimental to the process of recovery. Now, you've already missed your 12:00 time, but I have another slot open at 1:30, and I suggest you be there."

"I can't make it today, I'm already—"

"Thank you, Mr. Whitlock. I'll see you then."

Before I even have a chance to argue with her the other line goes dead. I bring the phone down from my ear and glare at it, like somehow if I just look at it long enough she'll call back and tell me she was just kidding.

"You have to go, don't you," Alice says softly. And to my surprise, I'm almost sure that she sounds disappointed.

"Yeah," I say, shoving my phone back into my pocket, "I have an… appointment."

One side of Alice's mouth turns up into an uneven half-smile as she sees right through my euphemism. "You know, you really shouldn't make your therapist angry. She's just gonna make you work ten times harder the next time she sees you."

"I know," I say, groaning inwardly at the truth in her statement. I zip up my still-drenched jacket and slowly raise myself up out of the booth, trying as hard as I fucking can to mask the amount of pain it causes me. When I'm finally standing, I look over at Alice to make sure I haven't made her uncomfortable. But just like when I sat down before, I find that she's not even looking at me. Instead, she's digging around in her backpack.

"Here," she says, pulling an umbrella out of her bag and handing it to me, "it's still raining."

I look at it dejectedly, really fucking embarrassed that I can't even accept what she's offering. "Alice," I say without reaching for it, "I can't."

"Don't worry," she says, completely misinterpreting my refusal, "I can just wait here until the storm passes. It's not going to last much longer anyway."

I shake my head and look down into her face. "No, that's not it, it's just… _I can't_." I emphasize the last two words, imploring her with my eyes not to make me explain any further. Finally, comprehension flickers in her face as she steals a quick glance at the offending cane that's leaning on the seat next to me. For a second, I half expect her to look back at me with the pity and sorrow that have been absent throughout our entire conversation. But as quickly as this thought enters my mind she quells it by reaching over and grabbing her backpack and smiling back at me determinedly.

"All right then, I'll walk with you," she says.

I roll my eyes at her in both relief and wonder and joy. "I'm only going to the metro station. It's honestly not that far. You really don't need to—"

"Perfect," she says, picking up the untouched to-go box that's still sitting on the table, "that's right on my way home."

I try to shrug indifferently, but I'm sure the enormous smile I feel spreading across my face gives away how happy I am to get to spend even just a few more minutes with her. I reach for the cane as Alice places a twenty on the table. It seems like a pretty fucking huge tip to be leaving, and I tell her so—but she merely responds by saying that he was "a really good waiter." Honestly, the moment we step out into the rain I completely forget about him. Because whatever kind of service industry super-powers he possessed, she's fucking leaving with _me_.

We walk in silence towards the metro. She has to hold her arm up straight over her head to get the umbrella high enough to cover both of us—and even then it occasionally bangs against my head if she steps the wrong way or loses her concentration. But I couldn't care less, because the same strange fire that rages within me every time we touch seems to linger in the air between us, warming me to my very core despite the frigidness of the winter air.

It takes only a few minutes for us to reach the metro station, even despite the ridiculously slow pace that I set (which, really, was only _partially_ due to my injuries). She walks me under the shelter of the roof and lowers the umbrella. I'm concentrating so intently on the strange fire that's still resonating in my body that it takes me a minute to realize that her face looks sad—pained almost. Any happiness I'd been feeling quickly turns to concern as I wonder what could possibly have her so upset.

"Alice, what's wrong?" I ask, my voice sounding more emotional than I'd intended.

She smiles up at me halfheartedly and once again raises the umbrella between us. "It's nothing," she says, "I guess I'm just a little cold." I can't see her face anymore, but I know her voice well enough to know that she's telling me a lie. I'm about to swat that damn umbrella away and make her talk to me when she takes a step backwards out into the rain.

"It was nice seeing you," she says, raising her now emotionless eyes up to meet mine. The difference between the numb mask she wears now and the bright, happy smile she wore in the restaurant is so striking, that for a moment, I forget how to speak. I just nod my head at her and let her walk away without saying a single word.

But she only gets about ten feet from me before an intense feeling of both emptiness and loneliness overwhelms me. With every step she takes away from me, the feeling gets stronger, like part of myself is being ripped from within me. A low panic begins building in my stomach, and before she can get even one step further, I walk back out onto the sidewalk and shout her name.

Obviously she hears me, because she turns around and begins walking back towards the metro station. But she's not moving nearly fucking fast enough, so I walk out to meet her halfway. When we meet on the sidewalk, she again raises the umbrella up to cover both our heads.

"What is it?" she asks sounding both alarmed and confused. I want to answer her, but for a minute I can't even speak 'cause I'm just so damn relieved to have her back next to me again. And plus, how exactly am I supposed to tell her about the hell I go through every time she leaves me? How can she possibly understand what the past six months have been like for me, and how impossible it would be for me to let her walk out of my life again now?

"Jasper?" she asks again, after I fail to answer her question.

"Ummm," I stall while quickly piecing together a lame-ass excuse for what I'm about to ask, "I was just thinking that, since we're in the same city and all, we should like, exchange phone numbers or something—you know, in case we ever wanted to like, hang out… or… something."

_Good fucking lord, I sound like a fucking high school dropout._

Fortunately, Alice overlooks my ineloquence. "I have some paper in my bag," she says, shrugging her shoulders as she steers us both back towards the metro station. Once we're safely under the roof she removes a sheet of paper from her bag and rips it in half. She locates a pencil and quickly scribbles something down on her half before handing the utensil and the blank half of the paper off to me. It takes me longer since I'm still not quite used to writing with my right hand, but in the end I manage to scratch out a semi-legible ten-digit number. We exchange halves of the paper, I'm a bit startled when I look down and see that she's written her address out as well.

"That number's not really _mine_;" she explains, "you can reach me there if you need to. But just in case you can't get in touch with me, I left the address too."

"Thanks," I say, folding the piece of paper and sticking it in the front pocket of my jeans—probably the only dry place left on my entire body. When I look back up at her, she's already got the umbrella up again, and is turning around to leave. "I'll talk to you later then?" I ask, the school-girl-like excitement still coloring the tone of my voice.

Alice turns back around and smiles at me. And thank fucking god—this time it's a real, genuine smile. "Talk to you later," she says, nodding her head and walking back out into the rain.

It still hurts to watch her walk away. It still hurts to have to let her go. But when the panic begins to rise up within me again, I'm able to push it down by reminding myself that this will _not_ be the last time I ever see her.

I still don't deserve her. I'm still unworthy even to share the same _space_ as her. But I've had to live without her. I've had to wake up every morning knowing that I'll have to somehow make it through another day without hearing her voice. I've had to go on breathing without knowing if my lungs could ever truly feel full of any air that didn't contain her scent. I've had to touch and be touched by others thinking that I'd never again feel the only touch that ever mattered.

And that's not living, that's not even _surviving_. That's just existing in a world that's lost its meaning.

And now that my meaning has suddenly and inexplicably come back into my life, it would be impossible for me to ever let her go.

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**In case you want to know where all the places in this story are in relation to each other, there's a link to a map on my profile.**


	12. Seamless

**A/N: Twila Reaux is always number one. I don't like the term 'beta' because it implies that the people who edit/preview stories are somehow secondary to the whole writing process. But, if Jacob circa ****Breaking Dawn**** has taught us anything (besides the fact that imprinting on a devil-spawn is a really freaking bad idea), it's that betas are often the true alphas. Twila is my alpha, and this story wouldn't be possible without her. Eternal gratitude, and of course, the dedication of this chapter are hers.**

**MrsDazzled has created a forum for this story over on twilighted . net. I love her for doing this. It's an awesome place for you to go and discuss plotlines/speculate on future chapters. In order to facilitate discussion, I'll be posting a teaser for each chapter in the forums the day or so before the chapter is posted here in completion. Of course, you don't need to wait for those teasers to go and discuss! Here's the link (remove the spaces--it's also posted as a clickable link on my profile): http:// www. twilighted. net/ forum/ viewtopic. php?f=44&t=2702**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters**

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Chapter Eleven: _Seamless_

"_The most important thing about life here is that people let themselves be absorbed into things… It's like when you're in the forest, you become a seamless part of it. When you're in the rain, you're a part of the rain. When you're in the morning, you're a seamless part of the morning. When you're with me, you become a part of me."   
~Haruki Murakami, __Kafka on the Shore_

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**APOV**

I button up my coat slowly, taking more time that is absolutely necessary to fit each individual button through each individual hole. All my coworkers have already headed home for the evening—eager to beat the evening traffic and get home to their families I suppose. As for me, however, there's no rush. In fact, I'd even work another shift right now if I could; at least then I'd be busy, occupied. As it is, the only thing I have waiting for me when I get home is more waiting. And I'm in no hurry to get back to that.

I finish up with my coat and walk out through the lobby, careful to keep my head down to avoid looking at all the Christmas decorations that somehow seem to multiply every day. Apparently, the bows and the garlands and the tree that went up on December 1st weren't enough. Our lobby could probably pass for the Christmas decorations department of Sears at this point. Plastic reindeer and ornaments and empty boxes wrapped to look like presents cover every available surface. The floor is strewn with tinsel and pine needles and glitter, all of which I'm dreading having to clean up once New Years rolls around. The combined scents of artificial cinnamon and citrus and pine are so pungent that every time I breathe, I can feel the inside of my nose burning. I could be wrong of course, but I was under the impression that Christmas was supposed to be an enjoyable time of year. What on earth do people find enjoyable about all this?

I push my way out the doors and inhale deeply, reveling in the cool, clear night air. Once my lungs recover from the stinging sweetness of the smells inside the hotel, I reluctantly begin my long walk home. As has become my habit lately, instead of turning right out of the hotel (the most direct route back to my house), I turn left towards the university. I glance towards the metro station as I pass it, but, like it always is at this time of night, it's empty. My luck isn't any better when I conspicuously peer in the windows of the little restaurant at the end of the street: even though its full of patrons, none of their smiling faces are familiar. I hang my head and walk back towards the street that will take me home.

Six days. It's been six days since I saw him at the restaurant. For six nights I've fallen asleep in a chair next to the phone in our living room; for six mornings I've woken up stiff and sore and disappointed. I can't count how many times I've dialed nine of ten digits in his phone number only to hang up before hitting that final '7.' I can't count how many times I've given up hoping only to find, seconds later, that there's a little hope left in me after all. Where it comes from, I'm sure I don't know. If this past week has taught me anything, it's that hoping is both painful and destructive for a person like me.

Last Monday, when the waiter (whose name along with all other names that weren't _Jasper_ I forgot the moment I looked out that rain-streaked window) first pointed him out to me, I couldn't make out anything but his shape. It was like I was back in his hospital room again, except that now it was the rain and not the darkness that was preventing me from seeing him clearly. But despite the fact that my eyes could only distinguish the outline of a blurry figure, my heart recognized him at once. For six months I'd hardly ever been aware of its beating, but in the second I saw that tall, marmoreal figure getting soaked by the rain, my heart was shocked to life with such a force that I thought it might punch a hole through my chest.

The effects of my miraculously jump-started heart were so intense in fact that I actually thought I might pass out while waiting to see if he would come inside or not. If he hadn't, I'm not entirely sure I would have had the physical strength to follow him. As it was, when he _did_ come inside, I didn't even have the strength to go to him right away.

My weakness was only partially due to his sudden and improbable re-entrance into my life. Mostly though, it was because when I saw him walk into the restaurant—when I really _saw_ him in the light for the first time—I truly realized how faulty my misinformed imagination had been.

Jasper no more resembled the picture I'd drawn earlier in the day than my waiter had. To be fair though, this second misrepresentation had little to do with my artistic ability. Even now that I've really _seen _him, I know I wouldn't be able to draw him accurately. I'm not sure anyone could. It would be like trying to capture the beauty of a sunset through a camera lens—no matter how skilled the photographer, something always gets lost in translation.

I'll skip the platitude of calling Jasper 'perfect.' He wasn't—and you know? Thank goodness for that. Because if he'd walked into the restaurant looking like a Greek god, I think—I _know_—I would never have been able to gather the courage to speak to him. His dripping, disheveled sandy-blonde hair and the slight stubble that was beginning to grow on his chin made him more approachable, more human. Likewise did the fact that, though he was clearly recovered enough to be out of the hospital and walking around on his own (which fact alone made my heart dance for joy), he still looked gaunt and thin, almost like he hadn't been sleeping or eating or even _breathing_ really. He looked exactly like I felt—like he was just going through the motions—and no matter what it was that was making him feel that way, I was comforted to know that we at least had that much in common.

No, he clearly wasn't perfect; he clearly wasn't a god. But still, he was the most beautiful, wonderful thing I'd ever seen.

Keep your sunsets; keep your rainbows and your oceans and your stars. Show me Jasper, and I'll have all the beauty I'll ever need.

I watched as the waiter (who, if he'd had any doubts before, was surely confident in my insanity by this point) tried to get Jasper to follow him to my table. I watched Jasper's lips move, but over the noise of the busy restaurant, I couldn't hear him at all. It was then that I realized that, no matter how utterly gorgeous the man standing there was, it wouldn't mean anything to me unless I could hear his voice. So, when the waiter looked over at me helplessly after failing to bring Jasper to me, I stood up and went to him.

I hadn't realized how freaking _tall_ 'just over six feet' is; I barely came up to his shoulder, which is probably why he didn't see me standing there at first. I tried to say his name to get his attention, but when I opened my mouth, no words would come. When he started to walk away from me, I panicked and did the only thing I could do to get him to look at me. I couldn't just let him walk away again—not before I _knew_ what my heart already believed to be the truth. I had to hear him—even if the words he spoke were words of anger and hate, I had to hear his voice again.

As it turns out, he didn't even have to say anything. I knew even his _breathing_ so well that when I heard him inhale his first angry gulp of air, I knew it was him. Of course, because it was Jasper, he _did_ say something—I'm sure he said a great _deal _of colorful things before his voice tapered off and he finally realized who he was yelling at. But I don't remember any of them. All I remember is that suddenly, all the other noises that had been clogging up my ears and my mind and my heart for the past six months were gone, drowned out entirely by the loveliest sound in the entire world.

I knew him then, and I could tell that the moment I said his name, he knew who I was too. But I wasn't used to reading his face; I had no idea what he was thinking in the moments after he recognized my voice. But something—whether it was shock or confusion or curiosity, I don't really care—_something _made him follow me back to my table.

It was only there, when initial shock began to wear off, that I realized that I'd touched him. _Twice_. Granted it was on his right arm and through several layers of clothing, but it didn't matter—I'd repeated the same unforgivable mistake that had caused him to push me away in the first place. It took me six months to find him again, and only thirty seconds to ruin everything with my damn stupid over-exuberance.

For several minutes I just sat there, thinking about how I should tape my arms to my sides or something when I go out in public to prevent myself from doing any further harm. As it turns out however, such measures aren't necessary.

He'd changed in the months we'd been apart. Obviously, there had been physical changes, but there was something else as well. Something that ran deep within him, and yet was so violent that it threatened to rise to his surface at any second. And it did—the moment he reached out and put his hand on mine, whatever new emotion it was that was boiling within him spilled over into me as well. Despite its intensity, it was far from unpleasant. It reminded me of how I feel when I come in after a long days' work and step into a hot shower: relaxing, calming, peaceful—only a thousand times stronger, and working outwards from within my body rather than the other way around. Feeling that, his haggard appearance suddenly didn't seem so inexplicable anymore; if I had _that_ boiling inside me all the time, I'd probably forget to shave too.

Still, I had no explanation for his inexplicable behavior. I'd known hateful Jasper, I'd known sad Jasper, I'd known teasing, playful, happy Jasper. But I'd never known a Jasper who would sit across from me in a lighted room and not once make a self-deprecating comment. I'd never known a Jasper who would willingly reach out an touch me when I needed comforting. I'd never known a Jasper who would actually seem _upset_ to have to let me go.

But as uncharacteristic as his behavior was, I certainly wasn't complaining. The day after his surgery I remember thinking that it would be impossible for anyone else on earth to love someone more than I loved him. I remember thinking that it would be impossible even for _me_ to love him more.

_God, what a fool I'd been._

After seeing him and feeling him and hearing him again, I know that love isn't something that ever really stops growing. Even when you feel completely full with it, it somehow finds a way to expand just a little more the second you're in the company of the one you love. And I'm just fine with that realization, 'cause that afternoon at the restaurant—that was the first time in months that I'd felt full of anything at all.

Like all good things though, it didn't last for long. I've always disliked therapists, but when Jasper's phone started ringing, I suddenly had my first reason to actually _hate_ one of them. Twenty minutes with him had started to heal parts of me that no amount of therapy could ever hope to touch, and through one phone call, that stupid woman took it all away.

That walk to the metro station was unquestionably the lowest moment of my life. It was like I'd been given one dose of an antibiotic and then denied the rest. I could feel the infection slowly returning to my body, only this time, it was some mutated form of the original strain that was completely resistant to treatment. His presence had cured me momentarily, but as soon as he left, the pain returned stronger than it ever was before. I couldn't stay numb any longer; that afternoon, for only the second time in six months, I let myself cry for him.

He asked for my phone number, yes. But the fact that he hasn't called simply confirms what I'd thought to myself at the time: that he only asked to be polite. I could call him, sure, but honestly, I crossed the line of acceptable behavior with Jasper long ago. _I _was the one who started the conversation through our wall, _I_ was the one who barged into his room without permission, _I_ was the one who first touched him. I wouldn't blame him if he thought that our chance meeting in the restaurant wasn't so coincidental after all. But I know better. I may think about him constantly, I may miss him and want to be near him, but I'm not ready to cross into full-fledged stalker territory quite yet.

Besides, in the end, it doesn't matter how much I love him. He's the one who pushed me away. I readily admit that I was a bit spaced out for much of our conversation at the restaurant, but I'm fairly certain her never apologized for what he did, which means he doesn't regret it. Furthermore, he never mentioned my bracelet, which likely means he either tossed it or ignored it. It's been almost six months after all—there's no _way_ he would have gone that long without touching his books. And all of this adds up to fairly undeniable conclusion: he'd really rather not have anything to do with me.

_Well, fine_. _I lived without him for at least eighteen and a half years; I can go on living just fine without him now_. _I don't need him, I don't want him, it doesn't matter to me if I never see him again._

I nod my head decisively and kick a piece of trash on the sidewalk to emphasize my point. I have myself convinced for a full minute or so before my lungs start burning and my heart starts aching in the familiar way that means my resolve has already failed. It looks like I'm in for another night of sitting down in the living room, waiting for him to call.

I enter my house and remove my coat and gloves before glancing halfheartedly towards the phone. The people in our house are pretty good about taking messages—probably because there are hardly ever any messages to take. Tonight my heart skips a beat when I see a tiny scrap of paper tacked to the wall above the phone. I nearly rip it in two in my eagerness to get it off the wall, but when I see what's written there, I curse myself for getting my hopes up.

"_Rob ~ call your mom."_

_Damn Rob and his stupid mother and the stupid phone and the stupid person who took the message. Just… damn them all._

I contemplate crumpling the paper up and tossing it in the garbage—or maybe burning it, or ripping it up, or putting it down the disposal—but in the end I just tack it back up on the wall. Whoever Rob is, I'm sure he'll be glad to know someone's thinking about him, even if it is just his stupid mom.

I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, where I am immediately hit with the sour smell of week-old food. This isn't an anomaly in our house—it comes, I suppose, from living with a group of social outcasts who are grouped together out of necessity and convenience. Usually I'm pretty meticulous about throwing things away, but this particular smell I know to be coming from one of my containers: a Styrofoam to-go box, in fact. Despite the fact that I'm never going to eat its contents, I still can't bring myself to throw away.

_Yeah. Completely pathetic. I know._

I hold my breath and reach around in the refrigerator until I find a carton of eggs and loaf of bread. I'm not a great cook. Unlike drawing or reading or writing, I'm fairly certain that cooking wasn't something I was proficient in before the accident. But I'm learning to make certain things, and by now, I'm pretty decent at making breakfast foods, which, the way I see it, is pretty much all I really need to know. Breakfast can be consumed at any time of day or night, and it's still pretty delicious. So, eggs, toast, bacon, sausage I can do. Anything else… not so much.

I decide to keep it simple tonight, partially 'cause I'm tired, and partially 'cause food, like everything else for me this week, just kind of seems _bland_ no matter how it's prepared. I eat my toast plain while I wait for the eggs to scramble, and then eat those right out of the pan with a fork. I'm well aware of how unglamorous the whole thing is, but honestly, I couldn't care less. What's the use of bothering with dishes if there's no one around to watch you eat?

I take care of my minimal mess, and then spend an extra fifteen minutes or so cleaning up the various other plates and cups that are scattered about the kitchen. It's the least I can do since I have absolutely no intention of throwing out that sandwich for at least another couple of days. When I'm done in the kitchen, I walk over to the phone again and check the voicemail on the off chance that I didn't hear the phone ring over the running water in the kitchen. Of course, there are no new messages, so I head upstairs to my room to take a shower and change out of my work clothes before I start my pitiful nightly routine of sitting by the phone.

Even from the hallways upstairs I can hear what's going on in everyone's rooms. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever live in a place that has normal acoustics. Honestly, this place is worse than the hospital ever was. Someone's watching _The Simpsons_, the girl who lives in the room next to me is listening to the kind of music you might drown a cat to, and somewhere down the hall, someone is having loud, voracious… well, let's just leave it at that. I sigh and push open my door, hoping that the sound of the shower will drown out at least some of the noise.

"Hey, kid."

I freeze where I am, half in the hallway and half stepping across the threshold into my room, as my eyes adjust to the sight before me. Even when they _do_ adjust, I blink a few times just to be sure of what I'm seeing. But no matter how many times I open and close my eyes, they keep registering the same image: Jasper, sitting on my bed, looking at me with an odd combination of relief and anxiety. Honestly, I don't know whether to smile at him or to burst into tears.

In the end, I settle for blushing furiously and stuttering out, "What—how did you—what are you…?" and concluding with the sagacious, "I _hate_ that nickname."

Jasper's expression softens into a slight smile, which quickly turns into a fit of laughter that's clearly at my ineloquent expense. It doesn't bother me though. It's been so long since I heard his laughter that I just stand there listening to it echo off the walls, marveling at how it seems to brighten even the dark space of this house with its melody.

"You should really lock your door you know," Jasper admonishes when he finally calms down.

For the record, I _do_ lock my door whenever I'm actually in my room. During the day though, why bother? It's not like I have anything that anyone would really want to steal. The issue of my unlocked door however, is not high on the list of discussions I want to have with him. _Why are you sitting on my bed grinning like an idiot? Why haven't you called? Do you have any idea how much pain I've been in for the past week?_ Those all seem like better places to start. So I enter my room, making a great show of closing and locking the door behind me, and sit down in the uncomfortable wooden chair that faces my bed.

"What are you doing here?" I ask after I've pulled my feet up into the chair and rested my chin on my knees.

The smile on his face dissolves into an unreadable expression that appears to be something in between a frown and a grimace.

"Alice," he begins—_apology_, my mind notes before he continues, _that expression was 'apology'_—"I'm real sorry I didn't call. I got sick from being out in that damn rain the other day and I didn't want to meet up with you 'till I was better. I tried calling a couple times this morning, but no one answered so I decided to come over. I hope you don't mind."

_Mind?_ As if I could mind walking into my room and seeing _him_ sitting there.

"I don't mind," I say, blushing deeply again. And then another part of his apology hits me. He's been sick? Is that really the only reason he hasn't called? Six days of waiting and missing and sulking all because he was _sick?_

"You're feeling better?" I question, not sure if I really believe the illness excuse.

"Yup," he says, smiling a little, "it was just a cold. Annoying as fuck, but I'm fine now." Even if I couldn't hear the slightly nasal twinge in his voice, I'd know he's telling the truth. But still, I find it a little difficult to believe. The Jasper sitting on my bed right now and the Jasper I met in the restaurant six days ago couldn't look more different. Some of it has to do with the fact that he's obviously shaved and, from the looks of it, gotten a haircut too. But there's more—he looks healthier, stronger, less pale. The cane that he'd relied on so heavily the last time I saw him is conspicuously absent from my room. His grey eyes that were sunken and almost lifeless before are now decidedly brighter and more animated. I could be wrong, but this seems like the opposite effect for illness to have upon a body. Somehow, over this past week Jasper has almost attained the state of perfection that I'd been so grateful _not_ to see in him before.

I drop my eyes to the floor, not wanting to get caught staring at him, but look up again quickly when the third part of his apology finally sinks in.

"You've been waiting here since _this morning?_" I ask incredulously.

Jasper smirks at me for my assumption. "No, only for about an hour or so. I started off downstairs, but I got pretty damn tired of talking to all your… housemates… so I asked one of them which room was yours and came up here to wait for you."

Suddenly, his expression grows severe. Again, I have to wait for him to speak before I can figure out what it means.

"Alice,"—_concern—_"do you really live here with all these people? I mean, Jesus Christ, Alice, when I was waiting down there I overheard conversations about drugs and overdoses and suicide and eating disorders, and all sorts of other messed up shit. What the fuck kind of place is this anyway?"

I frown and drop my gaze back down to the floor. "No one does any of that stuff here," I tell him, even though I know it's only partially true. "This house is for people who're trying to recover and get their lives back in order. Everyone's pretty nice. I mean… I haven't had any problems with anyone at least. We all pretty much keep to ourselves. Whatever you overheard, it's probably not really that bad."

I glance up to see that Jasper, too, is focusing his gaze intently on the floor, and that the concern that had been written on his face has now intensified into anger. "I just can't believe those fuckers stuck you in a place like this," he spits out.

"Where else would they have put me?" I say humorlessly, despite the little half-smile I feel playing out on my face. "It's close to the city, it's close to where I work—it's really not that bad if you think about it. And besides, it's what I could afford."

Jasper's head snaps up quickly at my last statement, his face still stern with that familiar anger. "Yeah, I noticed your _uniform_," he says, looking me up and down again to emphasize his point. "You're working as… as what? A _maid_?"

At work, the management will use any flowery language possible to avoid the term 'maid.' I've been called 'cleaning service professional,' and 'hospitality engineer,' but never 'maid,' though it's clearly the best description for what I do. Usually I don't care _what_ I'm called, so long as I get my paycheck and the end of the week. But hearing the way Jasper says that word now, I suddenly feel dirty, shameful, disgraced.

I wrap my hands around my legs and drop my forehead onto my knees to hide my face. "So?" I mumble, "I'm really not qualified to do much. I'm pretty lucky to have any job at all."

After a minute I hear Jasper shift on the bed across from me, and look up to see his face full of the same apology I'd registered earlier in our conversation.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound like I'm judging you or anything. It's just… Alice, come on. We both know you're so much better than this," he says, gesturing around to the crumbling walls and decaying furniture that make up my tiny room. He makes a point of catching my eye before concluding, "We both know you deserve more."

I have to think about that for a second. _Do we?_ It's true that Jasper is the only person who's ever made me feel like I _deserve_ anything. For the weeks that we were in the hospital he made me feel worthy of kindness and happiness, and even love. But when he—my one true friend—had pushed me away, I suddenly felt completely _undeserving_ of anything at all. And, while of course I'm glad—ecstatic really—that he's come so unexpectedly back into my life, I really don't understand how he can sit there and tell me that I'm better than _anything_ when he himself has rejected me before.

I'm just about to introduce the subject of my last days in the hospital when suddenly, a euphoric, libidinous scream resounds loudly from the room down the hall. I shake my head and feel my face flush red with the awkwardness of the situation. Before a bout of inappropriate laughter can seize me however, Jasper slams his hand down on the bed with so much force that I swear I actually hear some wood snap somewhere.

When I recover from the initial shock of the sound, I look up hesitantly to meet his eyes that are now burning with anger and frustration and…

"That's it," he says sternly as my mind registers _determination_ as his final emotion. "Pack your shit."

"Excuse me?" I say, my voice slightly shaking with several different types of fear.

"I said pack your things," he repeats, calmer, but no less determinedly. "You're moving in with me."

*******

**JPOV**

She's looking at me like I'm a wanted felon or some shit, which I find rather ironic considering the fact that she's currently sharing a house with a few of those. Still, I don't blame her for her expression; I'm just as surprised by my request—_demand?_—as she appears to be. I certainly didn't come here today with the intention of displacing her from her 'home,' but after seeing the kind of conditions she lives in, I can't just _leave_ her here. It's a miracle she's survived _this_ long without getting robbed or assaulted or worse, and I'm not going to wait around and see how much longer she can tempt fate.

Like all big cities, there are parts of Philadelphia that are nice and clean safe. As soon as I stepped off the metro this afternoon, I knew that Alice's neighborhood wasn't near any of them. Everything was dirt and filth and potholes and run-down buildings. In the block it took me to walk from the metro to her house I passed at least one dealer, not to mention the countless other shady fucking characters that looked like they were plucked right out of _The Wire_. Alice's housemates weren't much better. After thirty minutes of watching every kind of degenerate imaginable pass through the main hallway, I decided it was probably the safest option for everyone involved if I waited upstairs near her room.

The fact that she leaves her door unlocked just fucking proves that she has no _clue_ how dangerous this place is. In fact, her naïveté is probably why those damn social workers at the hospital put her here in the first place: 'cause she didn't know enough to be afraid. Even if they weren't intentionally taking advantage of her, I could still kill them for sticking her in a fucking halfway house in the middle of Sketchville, Philadelphia. I mean, fuck! She's just a _kid_. She may have lost her memory, but that certainly doesn't qualify her to be lumped in with semi-recovering addicts and mental patients. Seriously, who the hell thought that this living arrangement was a good idea?

The three hours I spent waiting for her in her room were three of the most agonizing hours I'd ever endured. (Okay, maybe I lied a little when I told her it'd only been an hour, but I didn't want her to think I was some sort of obsessive stalker or anything.) I spent much of the time cursing my physical therapist yet again for causing me to catch a fucking cold. Though, as it turned out, I couldn't stay mad at her for long since it was her insistence that I take the fucking metro that led me back to Alice again. But still, if something had happened to her while I was sick in bed, I don't know if I could've ever forgiven myself.

The idea of something happening to Alice inevitably led me to the second train of thought that occupied my time alone in her room: I could blame my therapist for the past six days, but what about the past six _months_? What if something had happened to her then? Whose fault would that've been?

No matter how many times I asked myself that question, the answer was always the same. _Mine_. When she left the hospital I had myself convinced that she'd be better off without me. Given different circumstances, I'm sure that conclusion would have been correct—someday that conclusion _still_ might prove to be correct. But for better or for worse I was the only fucking friend she had—and like the total ass that I am, I just let her walk out into the world alone. If something had happened to her, it would have been because of my negligence, because of my thoughtlessness. It would have been my fucking fault.

_Never again._

Just before Alice had come upstairs, I'd decided that I'd help her find a place to stay—close to my apartment if at all possible—that wasn't such a cesspool of despondency. If money was an issue for her, I'd fucking help pay for it—even if it meant getting a job. As long as she was safe and happy and living in the kind of place that she deserved, it didn't matter what it took for me to give it to her.

But that shit would take _weeks_ at best, and the moment I saw her walk in the door in that degrading maid's outfit—the moment I saw that beautiful, angelic girl standing in a room that could easily pass for a cell in any prison—I knew that 'weeks' wasn't going to be fucking soon enough. It had to be now; it had to be tonight.

Offering up Emmett's empty room was, admittedly, stupid. It's not that I don't want her to move in with me—in fact, I can't think of anything that I want _more_. After so long apart, sharing the same space with her again would be better than any dream. But, on the other hand, taking advantage of the fact that she literally has nowhere else to go would make me just as much of a monster as her fucking social workers.

So, because she's still sitting there staring at me like I'm carrying a loaded weapon, I come up with an alternative living arrangement that will still get her out of this place as quickly as fucking possible.

"Or we could find you a hotel if that'd make you more comfortable," I say, wincing slightly when I remember that she _works_ in one. _Real fucking smooth, Jasper_.

Whether it's my tone or the suggestion itself, something finally breaks through the shocked mask she has plastered on her face. She scrunches her eyebrows together and looks away from me, down at the floor.

"I don't want to stay in a hotel, Jasper."

Of course she doesn't; it was a lame suggestion. But she has to understand that, no matter what, I'm not letting her stay here even one more night,

"All right," I say, "is there anyone from work you could stay with? A friend or something?"

She shakes her head slowly from side to side, but doesn't immediately answer my question. Instead, she hugs her legs tightly against her chest and drops her forehead onto her knees, like she's trying to make herself as small as fucking possible. Finally, when her body is so folded in on itself that she can't possibly get any smaller, I hear her mutter,

"I don't understand."

"Look around you, Alice," I say, struggling to control my voice so it doesn't sound like I'm yelling at _her_, even though I do really feel like yelling at _someone_. "This place is a dump. Worse than that, it's not fucking safe. I can't let you stay here with these people, not when, at any moment you could—"

"That's not what I mean," she says, so softly it's barely even a whisper. If I hadn't spent two months memorizing every single pitch of her voice, I would have missed it all together.

"What then?" I ask.

Alice raises her head slightly so her eyes are just visible over the tops of her knees. The unexpected and undeniable sadness I see written in them is so powerful that, for a moment, my breathing actually stops.

"You didn't even say goodbye to me, Jasper," she says, her voice trembling with an equal measure of both sorrow and anger. "You ignored me for five days and then you didn't even say goodbye. And now here you are, talking about what I'm _better than_ and what I _deserve_, and trying to 'rescue' me from the only life I know? I just… I don't understand."

I'm not surprised by her anger. When she puts it like that, I'm really fucking angry too. How could I have been so stupid? She may not have felt the same love for me that I still feel for her, but she definitely thought of me as a friend. And I just fucking ignored her and let her walk away. Clearly, I've caused her pain—clearly these past six months haven't been easy for her either, and a great deal of the responsibility for that falls on my shoulders.

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, and close my eyes tightly in frustration. How many different ways can I hurt this girl before I run out of opportunities to apologize?

"I'm sorry," I mumble through my fingers. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if you could forget about me, and forget about the hospital, then you could move on more easily. I thought you'd be better off without having to remember all that—without having to think of it at all."

"Forget about you?" she snorts sarcastically, "You and that stupid hospital were my _only_ memories, Jasper. How on earth was I supposed to _forget_ about you?"

I mimic her earlier movement of shaking her head from side to side. It's the best I can do to answer her rhetorical question—all my breath and all my words are trapped beneath the hard lump forming in my throat.

"I really missed you, Jasper," I hear her whisper after a few minutes. I open my eyes to see her looking at me with that same expression of inconsolable sadness as before. This time, though, I understand it—her face is like a mirror for everything I'm feeling.

"I missed you, too," I manage somehow to choke out despite the ever-present lump.

Alice tilts her head to the side as she studies my expression. I assume she's looking for confirmation of my sincerity. Well, she can look all fucking day and she'll never see anything except for genuine remorse. Letting her walk out of my life was by far the stupidest, most worthless thing I've ever done. And that's saying a hell of a lot considering my recent penchant for doing stupid, worthless things.

"You're an idiot," Alice says, confirming my own inner monologue. Despite her words though, her tone is more reminiscent of how she sounds when chastising me for using her nickname—half mocking and half serious. When I look closely at her face, I see one corner of her mouth lifting into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You're stubborn and childish, and despite what you think, you have no idea what's best for people. And if you ever pull anything like that again, I'll never forgive you."

I want to laugh at her for her assumption that I could ever repeat the moment in the hospital when I let her, _forced her to _walk away from me. I want to tell her that not only am I all the things she mentioned in her little tirade, I'm also selfish and destructive and narcissistic, and a whole slew of other fucking useless things. But instead, I just inhale deeply, letting the air finally dissolve the lump in my throat, and smile over at her hopefully.

"Does that mean I'm forgiven _now_, then?"

She shrugs and smiles sweetly back at me. "Yes. Because you came back."

I've broken so many promises in the short time I've known her that it seems pretty fucking futile to make another one now. But the moment she forgives me, I find myself promising, _swearing_ that I'll find a way to clean up all the fucking messes I've made. I will never give her cause to regret this; I'll never give her cause to wish I'd stayed away.

"About your offer…" Alice hedges awkwardly after a few minutes, dropping her eyes towards the ground again. It takes me a second to go all the way back in our conversation to figure out what she's talking about.

"It still stands," I clarify when I remember the really fucking embarrassing part where I asked her to move in with me. "Obviously, if that's too… weird for you, I'm sure we could work something else out. But I'm not leaving you here—not tonight, not _ever_ again. So, just figure out what you want to do, and I'll help you do it."

Alice frowns and keeps her eyes trained on the floor. "I wasn't lying when I said I couldn't afford much else, Jasper. I have hospital bills and therapy bills, and to have to pay for food and housing too—this really is the best I can do."

I know something about the expenses she's referring to. As if it weren't enough to be injured so badly that you have to stay in a hospital, you get handed a huge fucking bill at the end of it all that, to use a clichéd but appropriate phrase, just adds insult to injury. Fortunately for me, insurance and trust funds have pretty much taken care of my costs thus far, so I can't even _imagine_ what it must be like for her, having to start from scratch.

In the last few months I've lost count of all the reasons why I hate hospitals and everything associated with them. The injustice of Alice's situation, however, is definitely fucking high up on that list.

"So come stay with me for awhile," I suggest, trying hard not to sound overly enthusiastic or hopeful. "I'm already paying for both rooms. It doesn't make sense for one of them to be empty."

Alice looks up at me, astonished. "I can't take advantage of you like that," she says, shaking her head.

_Funny, that's exactly what I thought I'd be doing to __her_.

"It wouldn't be like that," I say, smiling at her gently. "Please Alice, I've screwed a lot of things up lately. Let me do this for you. If it works out and you want to stay, we'll find a way to make all the finances work. If it's too uncomfortable for you, I promise I'll help you find another apartment. But for now at least, you'll have a quiet, clean, _safe_ place to stay."

For the second time tonight, she tilts her head to the side and studies my face. For the second time tonight, whatever she sees there makes her smile.

"Are you sure?" she asks before biting down lightly on her bottom lip.

Even if I hadn't been before, seeing the hesitant, yet somehow eager expression on her face would have sent me tumbling over the edge. I nod my head and grin at her widely.

_Abso-fucking-lutely sure._

She lets out a sort of half-squeal, and jumps out of her chair so quickly that it crashes loudly to the ground. She ignores the upturned chair and almost fucking_ skips_ over to her chest of drawers where she removes a few articles of clothing.

"Just let me change," she says, entering the bathroom and closing the door behind her.

I'm a little surprised (though not unpleasantly) by her enthusiasm. I don't live in a mansion after all: no expensive silverware or nice furniture or pretty views. It's more like a fortress of fucking solitude than anything else. But it _is_ clean, and it _is_ quiet, and it _is_ safe. And I guess, considering what she's used to, even these minimal comforts are enough to get excited about.

I take advantage of the sudden privacy I have to raise myself up off the bed. Nearly four hours of sitting in the same position is definitely not good for my skin. But, as has been the case ever since I saw Alice in the restaurant on Monday, the pain hardly even bothers me anymore. It's trite to say it, but it's true. Even though I was sick and stiff and sore all week long, I find it hard to remember a time when I ever felt so damn _good_.

Alice emerges from the bathroom wearing a baggy tee-shirt and an ill-fitting pair of jeans—obviously articles of clothing that were chosen out of necessity rather than desire. I make a mental note to take her shopping sometime in the near future. This, along with providing her with a place to stay, is the very least I can do.

"Just pack what you need for tomorrow," I say as I unhook my coat from the bedpost, "We can come back with my car tomorrow to get the rest of your stuff."

Yeah, I still don't have my license back, but after last week's whole getting-caught-in-the-rain fiasco, I've started driving my car around, just getting used to it in case I ever need it again. I figure, as long as I don't do anything fucking stupid, no one'll ever know that I'm driving illegally.

"I work tomorrow," she says as she starts neatly packing one of her uniforms into her backpack, "maybe we can come back on Wednesday."

"I'll come on my own then," I say, zipping up my coat. It's probably just as well. The less contact Alice has to have with this place, the better. "Just do me a favor and call your fucking landlord or… whatever, and tell them you're not coming back."

"No problem," she says, closing her bag and turning to grin at me. "Okay, I'm ready."

I walk behind her out the door (which, of course, now that she doesn't need to, she suddenly decides it would be a good idea to lock) and down the stairs. It takes me twice as long to reach the bottom step as it takes her, so by the time I've joined her in the hallway, she's already buttoned up her coat and is in the process of slipping on her gloves. Once she's all bundled up, I follow her out onto the street, really fucking happy that I'm watching her leave this place for the last time.

I walk close to her, keeping my eyes and ears alert for any signs of trouble. I'm grateful when we finally make it the block to the metro station, but it surprises me when I start down the stairs and realize that Alice isn't walking next to me anymore. I turn around to see her still standing on the sidewalk, her eyebrows knotted together as she stares uncomfortably at the big blue 'M' painted on the outside of the building.

"What's wrong?" I ask as I ascend the one step I'd taken and walk back out to join her. She runs her hand distractedly through her short hair as she continues to look past me at the station. Just then, a train rumbles loudly from somewhere beneath us, and Alice instinctively takes a step backwards, away from the noise.

_Fuck, Jasper! How could you be such a fucking idiot?_

"I wasn't thinking," I apologize, "we'll call a taxi instead." Before I can even pull my phone out of my pocket, I notice Alice stiffen even more.

_That's a 'no' on the taxi as well, I guess._

"You go ahead," she says quietly, almost apologetically, "if you just give me the address I can meet you there."

_Highly fucking unlikely._

"Don't be ridiculous, Alice" I say as I resume walking in the direction of my apartment. "I'm not letting you walk around this neighborhood alone," I continue when she catches up with me.

"But, your—"

"It's not that far," I cut her off. "I'll be fine."

I had to MapQuest her address to figure out which train to take to get to her house, so I know the exact distance I'm talking about here. For a normal person, one and a half miles is hardly anything at all. For me, obviously, it's a different story. For a brief moment, I wonder if I'll actually be able to make it. But then I look down to see Alice smiling up at me, and I know that, with her by my side, it's not going to be a fucking problem at all.

I start making small talk to take my mind off the walking and the cold. Mostly I stick to simple questions about the last six months. She tells me about her boss and her job and her housemates—all of which sound pretty fucking dismal if you ask me. She talks about testifying at the trial back in August, and I cringe at the thought of Alice having to sit up on a witness stand and face the woman who'd almost killed her. Again, it makes me feel like a complete dick for not being there to help her through it—though, from the way she tells it, it doesn't sound like she needed any help at all. That doesn't surprise me: Alice has always been far braver than I could ever hope to be.

At one point she mentions visiting some of the historic sights around the city, and I'm instantly reminded of the hundreds of sketches I saw taped up to the walls of her room.

"Did you draw all those?" I ask her, finding it a little hard to believe that someone who'd lost her memory could possibly sketch all of those detailed pictures.

Alice nods her head. "I just started doing it one day when I was bored, but it became sort of an obsession. It's the only thing I've found so far that I'm even remotely good at."

"Alice," I say, making sure she looks up into my eyes before I continue, "You're not just _good_ at it, you're _fantastic_. Honestly, those drawings are amazing. You could probably sell them and make shitloads of money if you wanted."

She looks away from me and changes the subject, obviously embarrassed by my overabundance of praise. I let her steer the conversation away for now, but make another mental note to pursue the discussion of her artistic ability at a later time. If she doesn't know how good she is now, she certainly will by the time I'm through with her.

I'm aptly humiliated when she begins asking me questions about how _I _spent the last six months. I have nothing to offer her save for a boring description of life in the hospital, followed by an equally boring description of life since I left. Up until six days ago, I'd been fairly content to just sit around and wallow in pity and loss and hopelessness. Well, a lot of fucking good that did me. Now here I am, walking next to the most wonderful girl in the world, and all I have to offer her is fucking pity and loss and hopelessness.

_Mental note number three: snap out of it and get a fucking life._

Eventually, much sooner, actually, that I would have thought possible, we reach the entrance to my building. I'm not going to lie: I'm sore and tired as all hell, not to mention the fact that the fucking freezing night air has aggravated the lingering congestion from my cold. But even sniveling and exhausted as I am, I couldn't care less. Alice came home with me—Alice is coming to _live_ with me. Life doesn't get much fucking better than that.

On the elevator ride up to the top floor, I wrack my brain trying to remember if I left any obvious messes out anywhere in the apartment. Even my habitual cleanliness tends to go to hell when I'm sick, so it's entirely possible that there are dirty dishes or clothes or god-knows-what-else lying around. Thankfully though, when I open the door and turn on the lights, the only misplaced item seems to be an empty pizza box sitting out on the kitchen counter.

_Thank god she doesn't have reason to think I'm a slob, too, on top of everything else._

"You live here?" she says. I watch her eyes go wide as she looks around the apartment. Like I said before, it's nothing special. But I suppose it _would_ look pretty nice considering what she's been used to.

"So do you," I remind her, smiling as the thought echoes in my mind. _So do you_… I wonder if I've ever heard a more remarkable sentence.

I take her jacket and hang it up next to mine on the coat rack. _Yeah, that's looks pretty damn remarkable too_. "Come on," I say before she catches me grinning like an idiot at those stupid coats. "Let me show you around."

It's just a small, two-bedroom apartment, so it doesn't take me too long for me to give her the tour: kitchen, living room, closets, bathroom—all pretty standard stuff. When we get to my room I realize, belatedly, that I did indeed forget to make my bed. I guess I end up looking a little like a slob after all. But thankfully, if she notices or cares, she doesn't comment.

I grab a set of sheets and a towel out of the linen closet before showing her the second bedroom. I didn't think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger, but when she steps into the empty space of Emmett's former room, I honestly think she's in danger of causing permanent damage.

"This is _huge_!" she cries, as she walks out into the middle of the room. When Emmett had lived there, it never really looked _huge_ to me. In fact, I always thought it looked kinda small for him. But with Alice standing there now, it all does seem pretty fucking big.

"Once you get some stuff up on the walls it won't be so bad anymore," I say, placing the linens down on the enormous king-sized bed. "If you want we can go shopping on your next day off and get some sheets or curtains or… whatever else you want." Damned if I know what kinds of things girls need to make a _place_ feel like _home_. Give me a pillow and a blanket and I'll feel at home just about anywhere. But whatever she needs, whatever she lacks, I'll get it for her. I definitely want her to feel as comfortable here as possible.

"That would be nice," she says, walking over to look out the window. She stands there for a minute, her back facing me, before adding softly, "this is amazing."

I can't be sure whether she's talking about the view (which is nothing more than a view of the Philadelphia skyline) or the apartment in general. I really, _really_ fucking hope it's the latter.

"It's okay then?" I equivocate, hoping her answer will give me some indication of what she means.

Unfortunately, she just keeps her back to me and repeats, "It's amazing."

_Well, I suppose that'll have to do for now._

I know she has to work in the morning, and thanks to our rather lengthy discussion and walk home this evening, it's already pretty late, so I decide it's time to stop pushing my luck and give her some privacy. I clear my throat to get her attention. Whether she hears me or not I don't know, since she continues to stare out the window.

"I'll, um, I'll leave you alone then," I finally say. "Everything here is yours now, so don't be afraid of using anything you need. And you know where to find me if you have any questions…"

I trail off as I notice the slight shaking of her silhouette against the window. My heart drops. _Is she fucking crying?_ _What on earth have I done?_

I walk over and stand just behind her, trying to think of where I went wrong. When nothing comes to me, I bring my hand up and gently rest it on her shoulder. "What is it, Alice?" I ask. "What did I do?"

I get the answer to my questions seconds later when, without warning, she turns to me and wraps her tiny arms around my waist.

To say that I'm surprised would be the fucking understatement of the century; I'm in complete and utter shock. But it's not because it hurts (which it certainly does _not_), and it's not because of the sudden reigniting of the fire that dances between us every time we touch. It's because _this_ is the reality that I began dreaming about all those months ago when she first laid her hand on me in the hospital. I remember thinking then how much I wanted to hold her in my arms and press her close to me, and just feel her little body heal all of the pain and the scars and make me whole again. Way back then, I was far too wrapped up in my own self to actually _do_ anything. But now, six months later, I'm completely unwilling to make the same mistake again.

Slowly, carefully, I drape my right arm over her shoulder and squeeze her gently. She responds by tightening her grip minutely around my waist. Somehow, it doesn't seem to be enough. So I remove my left hand from its habitual place in my pocket, and wrap that arm around her as well. This definitely does the trick. She presses her head tightly against my chest and embraces me with more force than I thought possible for someone as small as she. I remember thinking before that it would never be possible for my pain to disappear completely. I was wrong. The moment she hugs me—the moment she truly hugs me with all her strength—it's gone. Everything on earth disappears except for her.

"Thank you," she says, as she lets the remainder of her tears fall against my shirt. Even though I know she can't see me, I smile down at her and squeeze her even more tightly in response.

Again, her syntax is unclear. I'm not exactly sure whether she's thanking me for hugging her or for the apartment or for any number of things she could possibly be alluding to. But I sure as hell know what _I'm_ thanking _her_ for. Forgiveness, happiness, feeling, completion, joy; I'm thanking her for all of that and more.

So much fucking more.


	13. Adjusting

**A/N: First and foremost, all kinds of thanks go out to my alpha (yeah, I'm sticking with that terminology), Twila Reaux, for all of her help with this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Chapter Twelve: _Adjusting_

"_It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour."  
~Charles Dickens, __A Christmas Carol_

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**JPOV**

For two hundred and sixty seven days I've woken up with the sun. Every morning I've watched as daylight has filled my room one colorful, silken ribbon at a time. It sounds romantic and sentimental, I know. But honestly, it's not. The sun is a huge fucking ball of fire after all, and even those first soft rays of light against my eyelids are enough to wake my unconscious mind with terrifying memories of that other fire that wasn't nearly so distant or peaceful. For two hundred and sixty seven days, I've woken up to a nightmare.

When I open my eyes this morning though, the sun is already high up in the sky, having risen completely without disturbing my sleep. I check the clock next to my bed for the time—10:17 AM. I slept for _ten hours._ Ten hours of the best damn sleep I've ever had in my life. In this sleep there was no fire, no burning, no memories—just peaceful darkness that has now flowed seamlessly into an impossible but extraordinary waking dream.

_Wait… ten hours? Shit_.

I groan as I realize that my inertia has effectively ruined the way I wanted this morning to go. I was _supposed_ to get up at my usual ungodly hour and do all my therapeutic treatment shit before Alice woke up. And then I was _supposed_ to be all gentlemanly and walk her to work. Considering her shift started two hours ago, any chance I had to impress her with my chivalry this morning has already come and gone. _Damn._

I don't let the self-admonishment go on for too long though. _After all_, I remind myself, _you'll have plenty of chances to make up for it._

The thought alone causes my mouth to twist up into an almost disgustingly huge smile. I can't really blame myself for this emasculate reaction though. Just one week ago I'd been under the impression that I'd lost her forever, and somehow, here I am, waking up to the knowledge that when she comes home tonight, she'll be coming home to _me_.

My smile quickly turns into another groan, however, when I remember what day today is: fucking Monday, which means fucking PT. As much as I'd like to just stay in bed and wait for Alice's shift to be over, I'm not eager to repeat the ass-kicking I received last week for my tardiness. Plus, I promised her I'd pick up her things from the House from Hell today, which obviously requires that I get my lazy ass out of bed and get moving. So, after sparing one final glance at the alarm clock in confirmation of the fact that I did, indeed, sleep past the crack of dawn, I sigh and swing my legs gingerly over the side of my bed.

Mornings are the absolute worst time of day for me since my body gets so stiff overnight. It takes me a good twenty minutes of stretching before I can actually stand up, and another twenty minutes after that before I can fully straighten out my torso and left arm. Add another thirty minutes of cleaning and applying medicated lotion to my wounds, and I've got myself a morning routine that could rival any diva's for length of time involved. And that's not even including the added time it takes me to shave and get dressed. Suffice it to say, my days of rolling out of bed ten minutes before my first class and making it across the quad with three minutes to spare are most decidedly over.

When I'm finally presentable, I walk out into the living room and grab my coat from the rack. I shrug into it carefully and am about to open the door when my eye catches something sitting on my kitchen counter. I walk over and find two keys and a note written in Alice's hand:

_J- Hope I didn't make too much noise this morning. I thought you might need these if you're still planning on going over to the house today. Of course, if you'd rather wait until Wednesday, I'll be happy to go with you. Thank you again—for everything._

_-A_

I mentally kick myself as I pocket both the note and the keys. It's a damn good thing at least one of us is responsible. How much of a fucking loser would I have looked like if I'd shown up at that place without a way to get into her room? Actually, a stunt like that probably would have seemed pretty normal considering all the other shady shit that goes on in that house.

I take the elevator down to the ground floor of my building and walk to the Metro. Once my train comes and I've found a seat, I pull out Alice's note and read it over again. This time, I roll my eyes when I get to the part where she thanks me. Holding her in my arms last night—that was hands down the best moment of my entire life. It's amazing to me that someone so tiny could make me feel so _safe_ and so whole. With one embrace she gave me more than I could ever hope to return. Remind me again what _she_ has to be thanking _me_ for?

I return the note to my pocket when the train pulls into the station, and walk the block or so to the hospital. Therapy isn't so bad today. My therapist is thrilled when I exhibit a more than 75° flexibility in my knee and when I'm able to exert a five-pound force with my left arm. I want to laugh at the little self-congratulatory smirk she has on her face when she notes these figures on her charts. If only she knew my progress was consequence of the Alice-induced euphoria I've been experiencing all morning, she might not be so confident in her masterful therapeutic abilities. However, the massive boost my progress gives to her ego does have at least one positive consequence: before I leave, she promises to talk to the hospital lawyer about getting my license back to me by the end of the month. _Nice._

When I get back to the city I grab a suitcase and a few empty shoeboxes from my apartment and throw them in the back seat of my car. I drive like a fucking grandmother out to Alice's old house, going no less than five miles under the speed limit at all times. I'm so close to getting my legal driving privileges back, there's no way I'm going to screw it up now.

I park on the street in front of the house, marveling in the fact that it seems to have gotten impossibly sketchier overnight. After checking and double-checking that my car is locked, I make my way up to the front door and fumble around with the keys for a little before finding the one that fits. I pass four residents on the way up to Alice's room, none of whom seem remotely bothered by the fact that a strange man has just entered their house. Just another reason I'm so fucking glad that Alice is out of here.

It takes less than fifteen minutes for me to throw all of Alice's clothes into the one suitcase. To be honest, I'd really almost rather leave them all here—her work uniforms included. This was her life from _before_, and it has nothing to do with the life I'm going to help her build _now._ But taking it upon myself to trash all her belongings would be pretty fucking arrogant, so I just pack everything away, trying to think about what I'm doing as little as possible. This approach comes in especially handy when I reach the contents of her top drawer—I just scoop everything up in a tee shirt and toss it into the suitcase without even looking. It's all very decent and virtuous if I do say so myself.

The removal of her pictures from the wall is another matter entirely. It must take me a full hour to get each one carefully un-tacked and placed gently into one of the shoeboxes. Part of the reason it takes so long is that I find myself completely unable to touch any picture without studying it carefully. Seeing the world through Alice's eyes is an awe-inspiring experience. She can take anything, even something as cracked and tarnished as the Liberty Bell and imbue it with an immeasurable sense of purpose and life.

Once everything is down off the walls I check the room for anything else she might want to have with her. I find a few sketchbooks and pencils and magazines that I put in a separate box along with the one pair of shoes I find in her closet. And that's it: Alice's whole life down to two shoeboxes and a suitcase.

_Fuck._ _How could I have let this happen to her?_

I bring the suitcase downstairs and am eternally grateful when I see that my car—complete with tires, VIN, and CD player—is still sitting outside. I make a return trip for the shoeboxes, load everything in the trunk, and drive off. This time I don't even bother to pay attention to the speed limit; the faster I can begin to forget this place ever existed, the better.

In order to make up for my lack of manners this morning, I decide to pick up dinner on the way home. I'd probably go so far to cook for her if I could, but even just _looking_ at the oven or stove still gives me chills, so until I get over that particular fear, take-out will have to do. It's 4:30 by the time I drag everything up to my apartment, which leaves me just enough time to make it to Alice's hotel before she gets off work. _I couldn't have timed this shit any better if I'd tried._

It's pretty damn cold out, but since crowded places still make me self-conscious as hell, I lean against the outside wall of the Sheraton as I wait for her shift to end. At 5:00 exactly the massive front doors of the hotel open to expel a veritable exodus of hotel employees. I'd specifically chosen my place against the wall so that I can see Alice before she sees me, but somehow she gets completely lost in the sea of white and red and that hideous green. By the time I finally see her she's heading right towards me—exactly like she'd known I was waiting for her.

I've been longing to hold her again ever since last night, and so as soon as she reaches me I stretch out my arm and gather her into my side. Any and all insecurity I feel disappears completely the moment Alice throws her arms around me in response. Just like last night, the moment we touch, nothing else in the world exists for me except for the way her body feels pressed closely to mine.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" I ask, loosening my grip on her slightly so I can see her face.

"I didn't," she says, her bright brown eyes smiling up at me. "But you're the only person I know who would rather stand outside in the cold than wait in the lobby. You must be freezing." Carefully, she unwraps her small arms from my waist and stuffs them into her pockets. "C'mon, let's go home."

At her words a violent shivering passes through me. She must be able to feel it too, 'cause she starts laughing—taking my involuntary response as a confirmation of her suggestion about the weather. All I can say is, I'm really fucking grateful to have winter as an excuse, 'cause that trembling? That had nothing to do with the cold.

"Sorry about this morning," I say, dropping my arm from her shoulder and beginning to walk towards the apartment. "I should've gotten up to make sure you knew where you were going."

"Jasper," she says, turning to roll her eyes at me, "I've walked past your apartment every day for months now. Of _course_ I knew where I was going."

I haven't really thought about that. Twice a day for five out of every seven days she'd walked the sidewalks directly outside my building. How on earth could we have missed each other all that time? If I had just gone outside at 5:00 instead of 5:15 on the right day of any given week I might have run into her sooner. Maybe that's why fate's being so kind to me today: it seems like I've had the wrong end of the deal for fucking months.

"Did you get the keys?" Alice asks, interrupting me from my musings.

"Yeah, thanks," I say, trying not to sound bitter. "I picked up your things too. I'm not gonna lie, kid, I wanted to throw the keys in the fucking garbage when I was done with them, but I figured your landlord might want them back. Did you call him?"

Alice shoots me a little look when I use her nickname, but starts smiling again when I mention wanting to throw away her keys. That's good—at least I know she has enough sense not to actually _miss_ that place.

"Thank you for getting my things. You really didn't need to do that, you know." I glance at her pointedly in a way that says, _no thanks necessary_. She gets the message and moves on to answer my question. "Yes, I called him. He's eager to rent the room out again, so he wants the keys back by the end of the week. I can take them to him on Wednesday if you—"

"Where's his office?" I ask skeptically as I open the door to my building for her. She digs in her pocket until she finds a piece of paper, which she then hands off to me. "I'll take the keys tomorrow," I say as soon as I see the address. As I fold the paper and put it in my pocket, I offer up a silent prayer that whatever good fortune that kept me safe in that hell-hole today will carry over into tomorrow.

"You hungry?" I ask once we've gotten back to my apartment.

"Starving," she replies. "If you wait for me to take a shower we can go to the store and get some—"

"Don't worry about it," I say, crossing over to the refrigerator and pulling out the bags of food, "I took care of it."

I'm sure if it were any other girl, she'd be impressed by the fact that I actually thought far enough ahead to pick up dinner. But, since it's Alice, she puts her hands on her hips and looks at me like a child who hasn't gotten her way.

"That's not fair," she whines. It takes about two seconds for me to see where this conversation is going, so I simply smirk at her and wait for her to continue. "You can't pay for everything, Jasper. From now on, I do the shopping. All of it."

I know I'll find some way to pay her back, so I just grin and nod my head. "Yes, ma'am. Any other demands?"

She levels her eyes at me in a gesture that is clearly meant to inspire fear and dread, though it really only amuses me further. Alice crusading for justice and equality—that's probably the cutest damn thing I've ever seen.

After glaring at me for a few seconds, the corner of her mouth finally twitches up into a smile. "I'll think about it," she says as she removes her backpack and coat. "Right now though, I really need a shower. Can you wait, like, ten minutes?"

"Of course," I say, putting the food back in the refrigerator. "All your stuff's in your room."

I've never known a female to take any less than thirty minutes doing whatever the hell it is women do in the bathroom, so as soon as I hear the water turn on, I sit down on the couch in the living room and start flipping through channels on the television. Barely five minutes later however, the water turns off again—once more proving that Alice is pleasantly different from every other woman I've ever known.

As soon as I hear the bathroom door open, I flip off the TV and begin setting the kitchen table. When I pull the food from the refrigerator though, I realize a serious flaw in my plans: I'm so used to eating cold food by now that I don't even notice it anymore. Alice though, Alice is _normal_. She probably likes her food, you know… hot. I glance at the microwave, wondering if I can handle it—but as soon as I look at the thing my fingers start shaking so violently that I nearly drop the box of food I'm holding. Naturally, this is the state that Alice finds me in when she walks back into the living room.

"What's wrong?" she asks as soon as she sees me from the hallway.

"Food's cold," I mumble as I continue to stare at the damn microwave. Fortunately, because it's Alice, she just fucking _gets_ it. Without any further explanation on my part, she crosses the room and stands at my side.

"I'll do it," she says, squeezing my arm gently with one hand and taking the food in the other. "Go sit down."

I'm sure she means for me to sit down at the kitchen table, but I go and sit in a chair at the other end of the fucking living room—as far away from the offensive piece of equipment as possible. I don't walk back out into the kitchen until I see Alice set the food down on the table.

"It's stupid," I say, averting my eyes as I sit down across from her. "I know that it's not—"

"Jasper," she cuts in, "when my social worker took me to that house in her car she had to pull over on the side of the road 'cause I was so afraid that I thought I was going to throw up. I haven't been able to ride in a car or a train or a bus since then. And I don't even _remember_ my accident. I can't imagine what it must be like for you. So I figure, if you can handle all the transportation from now on, then I'll handle the cooking. Deal?"

It's a pretty damn stupid thing for me to want to agree to. The whole point of having her move in with me was so that I could give her a _better_ life than the one she had before—not so I could drag her into some sort of co-dependent bullshit where we're both allowed to practice avoidance of our fears. But for tonight, her suggestion is exactly what I need to hear—just like walking with her last night was exactly what _she _needed in that particular moment. All the working through our mutual shit—that can come later.

"Deal," I say, raising my eyes to meet her gentle gaze. "For now," I qualify sternly.

She nods once and smiles at me before dropping her eyes back down to the table. Her face gets a little red as she inclines her head towards the food in front of her.

"I can't believe you remembered this," she says. "It was so long ago."

I shrug my shoulders and smile as I pick up the spatula and begin cutting her off a piece of the lasagna. I decide to hold off on telling her that I could repeat every single conversation we've ever had verbatim, and that the memories of the moments we spent together in the hospital were the only things that made my time apart from her bearable. Those kinds of scary-ass details can probably remain unspoken for now.

We eat mostly in silence—a habit which extends from the fact that we're both so used to eating alone. Alice, of course, insists on doing the dishes when we're through, which I don't really mind since I get to see her up on her soapbox again in the name of equality. And plus, trying to do dishes one-handed? Yeah, that's a complete bitch.

Once everything's cleaned up and put away, Alice turns to me, crosses her arms expectantly across her chest, and asks, "So what do we do now?"

I frown uncomfortably as I try to remember what I usually do after dinner. "Um," I say, scratching my head, "I guess we could watch TV or something."

"No TV," she says sternly. For a moment, I'm confused by the intensity with which she glares at the television as she shakes her head. This isn't the little teasing, half-serious look she gave me earlier in the evening—this is a full-out death-glare that actually makes me feel kind of sorry for my poor TV. That is, of course, until I recognize the probable reason behind her hatred. How many times had I used my television against her in the hospital? _Too fucking many_. The memory of my stupidity makes me shoot the TV a quick death-glare of my own.

"What about your drawings?" I ask after a few minutes. "I could help you put them back up on your walls. I mean, there are hundreds of them—that'll definitely take us all night."

Alice stops glowering at the TV long enough to look over at me skeptically. "I can't imagine that'd be much fun for you."

Ha. If only she knew how fucking thrilled I am at the idea of spending even a few more hours with her. Again though, I resort to a casual shrug in order to keep things light. "You have a better idea?"

She doesn't, of course, so I follow her into her bedroom where she fans out all her drawings on the enormous bed. Apparently she has some kind of very particular order in which she wants all the pictures tacked up, and the more I try to help, the more I seem to get in the way. Eventually she relegates my role to sitting on the bed and handing her pictures when she asks for them, which is fine for me since, with only one person working at the task, it'll take twice as long.

She tells me about each drawing as she hangs it up on the walls. It's amazing to me how, even months after she's drawn them, she can still remember incredibly specific things about every single picture—like the way a child sounded when he was laughing, or exactly what time of day it was when she sketched a particular angle of the sun in the sky. Again, I find myself really fucking baffled that, considering the appreciation she has for the world around her, she's not overwhelmingly bitter at the thought of everything she must have lost.

"What's your favorite place?" I ask as I leaf through the drawings on the bed. "You've sketched pretty much everywhere in Philadelphia. You must have a favorite by now."

"Actually, I don't" she says, ignoring the picture I hold out to her and selecting one from the pile herself. "At least, not one that I've drawn yet. This is my favorite drawing though," she says, handing me a drawing of a tree. It was obviously done recently—sometime towards the end of autumn probably, since the tree is bare apart from a dozen or so red or yellow or orange leaves still clinging to its branches. Aside from the characteristic level of detail Alice has paid to each individual leaf, it seems fairly unremarkable to me.

"It's nice," I say, trying to sound as enthusiastic about it as I have about many of the others so that I don't hurt her feelings.

She smiles knowingly and removes the picture from my hands. "I know it's not the prettiest, or the best, but… I guess it's more about how I was feeling when I drew it," she offers evasively, turning around to tack it up over her bed.

"What about you?" she asks before I can pry any further into her explanation. "Where's your favorite place in Philadelphia?"

"You've already drawn it," I say, standing up and crossing the room to point out the picture I'm referring to: a view from the Schuylkill, looking out across the skyline of the city. "This is the best way to view a city—from the outside looking in. Once you get into the thick of things, it all pretty much looks like crap to me."

Alice walks over and studies the drawing for a minute before turning to me and rolling her eyes. "That's dumb, Jasper. You're just not looking hard enough."

"All right then," I say, grinning down at her. "I guess you'll just have to show me something good about this place one of these days."

"Maybe I will," she responds, returning my smile.

I'm sure she already has a list a mile long of places she can take me and things she can show me in an effort to get me to embrace the same appreciation for the world that she has. Little does she know that just by standing here with me, she's already answered my request.

*******

**APOV**

_Things can't go on burning forever_.

It's a tedious equilibrium this world balances upon. Everything is weighed and measured and assessed so that Forever is impossible for all things. Sometimes though, certain feelings are so intense, and last for so long, that they trick the mind into believing that Forever is possible. For the unfortunate, this illusion applies to pain and grief and sorrow. However, there are a select and lucky few for whom hope and happiness and love are such constant companions that Forever doesn't seem to be nearly long enough.

I've had a taste of this second life for the past few days. If there is an inevitable end to it all, I have no desire to know about it.

It seems shameful to admit it now, but I didn't trust Jasper when he asked me to move in with him—not at all. I understood him well enough to know that he'd always do what he thought was best for me, but that was just the problem—his idea of what's 'best' for people is usually grossly misinformed. So even though I knew his offer was sincere, I had no idea how long it would last before he decided that I had 'better options' elsewhere.

I got my answer when I hugged him on Sunday night. I have no idea where the impulse came from—as far as I know I've never hugged anyone in my entire life. But I was so overwhelmed by the stark contrast between what I'd known and what he was offering me that I didn't think about what I was doing until I'd already done it. And fortunately, his arms were around me before my mind even had a chance to think the word _mistake_.

It was only _then_ that I trusted him. I was trying to be careful not to squeeze too hard and to avoid the places where I knew him to be burned most severely, but he just kept clutching me tighter and tighter like I was the only thing connecting him to the earth. You don't hold someone like that if you have any conscious intention of ever letting them go. It was like fear and relief and desire and need all at the same time. An admission and apology; a beginning and an end.

And for me at least, many things ended that night. Insecurity, longing, pain, sadness, missing: all of those got lost somewhere in our embrace.

The hug itself ended semi-awkwardly when we both began to run out of air. Any embarrassment was dispelled, however, when he smiled down at me and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the lingering tears in my eyes. For the first time in my life, or at least, for the first time I can remember, I finally felt a sense of comfort and belonging. I felt at _home_.

I hardly slept at all that night. But even though I was wide awake when the sun rose, I felt refreshed and rejuvenated and more rested than I'd felt in months. Even the cool winter air that met me on my way to work that morning seemed tame compared to the brightness I already had within me.

Clearly, the effects Jasper had on my mind and heart also extended to my body: all day people who I couldn't remember ever having spoken to made a point of telling me how well I looked or how happy I seemed. I was flattered, sure. But I was also completely annoyed with myself for not being able to match names and faces and conversations. Where had my mind _been_ these last few months?

I made a vow to myself that day that I'd never slip back into the void I'd inhabited for the months after I left the hospital. Life, it turns out, is never completely meaningless so long as it goes on.

Up until recently, the things I wanted so rarely matched up with the things I _had_, that it felt like too much good fortune when I got off work that night and saw Jasper waiting there for me. Things took yet another exceptional turn when, without saying a single word he drew me close to himself like it was the most normal thing in the world—like we'd been doing that all our lives. I doubt that anyone who saw us would have believed that, up until a week ago, we'd never even seen each other face-to-face.

On Monday night Jasper handed me a set of keys to his apartment. I was a little worried that this meant that he wouldn't be there to pick me up from work the next evening, but all my anxiety dissolved when I walked out the doors yesterday and saw him waiting exactly where he'd been the day before. And, just like he had on Monday, as soon as I reached him he hugged me so fervently against his side that it almost felt like he'd been waiting to hold me all day. Whether he actually had or not, I didn't ask. All I knew was that _I'd_ been longing for it, and whatever his reasons were for giving it to me were better left unquestioned.

We ate leftover lasagna last night, and then Jasper brought his laptop out into the living room to show me how to use it. It took awhile for my fingers to remember how to work the keys, but it was clear from the moment I had the machine in front of me that I'd once known how to use a computer. I was pleased to learn this about myself; whoever I'd been before, at least I'd been a living, breathing member of the twenty-first century.

I went to bed fairly early and was finally able to calm down for long enough to get a good sleep—deep and dreamless and peaceful.

I'm still semi-lost in that blissful unconsciousness when, at around 8:00 in the morning, I hear an insistent knocking on my door.

"Wake up, kid," Jasper calls from the hallway. "We've got shit to do today."

I grin lazily as I remember his promise to take me shopping for 'sheets or curtains or whatever' on my day off. The curtains I could probably use—I've been changing my clothes in the bathroom for the past few days to avoid exposing myself to the entire world via my window. The sheets however I could do without; I rather like being surrounded by his smell when I sleep.

"Give me ten minutes," I answer as I pull myself out of bed.

I hear him mumble something under his breath before the sound of his footsteps begins echoing down the hallway. Again, I have to smile. I know in the grand scheme of things I haven't actually known Jasper that long. Even so, I'd still bet that this is the first time he's ever been impatient to go shopping for linens… or shopping _period_.

I grab a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and make my way out through the hallway and into the bathroom. Showering is always a double-edged sword for me. I love the way the water feels against my skin, but every time I look down at my naked body, I can't help but feel voyeuristic. After all these months I still feel like a stranger to myself. When I trace the angry, jagged scars on my chest and stomach and hip, the feeling of unfamiliarity gets worse. So, no matter how relaxing the water is, the shower itself is always brief.

Neither does take me long to get dressed or dry my hair, and so, not ten minutes after he first knocked on my door, I join Jasper in the living room.

"Mornin'" he says, grinning at me as he offers me my jacket.

"Good morning," I say, returning his smile. "Impatient much?" I ask when I notice that he's already got his coat on.

He shrugs his shoulders and steps over to open the door for me. "It's a long walk."

Much to Jasper's chagrin I make the walk even longer by insisting that we get breakfast on the way. To be honest, I could probably do without it. But after seeing the immense difference between thin, haggard Jasper and the infinitely more healthy Jasper who met me at my house the other evening, I've made it my personal mission to make sure he continues to eat well.

We grab a couple bagels from a Starbucks and then make our way across the river into the heart of the city. Our destination is a shopping mall that isn't really that far away, but Jasper's uneven gait makes our progress pretty slow. In theory, this doesn't bother me—I'm so happy that I finally get to spend a full day with him that the details of how we spend it don't matter to me at all. In practice though, I'm fairly concerned that this is all too much for him. Those first few weeks that I walked the roundtrip from my house to the hotel were exhausting and even painful at times. And my injuries were nowhere near as extensive as Jasper's. If it hurts him though, he does a darn good job of masking it. By the time we reach the mall he still has the same smile he greeted me with this morning plastered across his face.

The moment we step inside I understand why he was so insistent that we make such an early start—at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning, we're virtually the only people here.

It doesn't take us long to find a store that sells bedroom accessories. I have to give Jasper credit for at least _trying_ to be interested in what I'm doing, but it's pretty clear from the expression on his face that the whole thing is pretty close to boring him to tears. Fortunately for both of us, his phone rings before I can start looking at towels, and he only poorly conceals his relief as he excuses himself to take the call outside.

I finish shopping and pay for everything before dragging it all back into the main section of the mall. Jasper's still talking on his phone when I get out there, so I drop my bags next to him on the floor and begin walking slowly down the row of shops while I wait for him to finish.

As a general rule, I've tried to stay away from places like this. All the clothes are so out of my price range that it just feels like I'm taunting myself by even looking. It's no different today. As I stare covetously at a particularly beautiful black dress in one of the windows, my own oversized coat and ill-fitted jeans reflect back at me, cruelly reminding me that more than just glass separates me from such nice things.

I shake my head to dislodge these negative thoughts, and am about to turn around when I hear a voice behind me.

"Do you like it?" Jasper asks. When I turn to face him he indicates the dress with his head.

"It's too expensive," I mumble regretfully as I take my bags from his hand.

"That's not exactly what I asked," Jasper says, frowning down at me. I shrug my shoulders at him and begin walking towards the exit, but before I can get very far I feel his hand on my shoulder.

"Come on," he says, steering me back towards the clothing store.

"Jasper, I can't aff—"

"I'm buying," he says, still guiding me forward.

"No!" I yell, stomping my foot and refusing to be led any further. "I will _not_ let you buy anything else for me. You're already doing enough."

Jasper looks around embarrassedly to make sure no one else has heard my little outburst, and then smiles down at me, his grey eyes shining with amusement. "Alice," he says softly, "I've never seen you look at _anything_ like you were just looking at that dress. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either way I'm buying it for you."

I'm almost tempted to choose the hard way, just to see if he'll make good on his threat. But I'm fairly certain he's serious, and I've already made quite enough of a scene, so I scowl up at him and say, "Fine, but I'm paying you back. Every single penny."

"Whatever you say," Jasper laughs as I let him lead me back towards the store. A saleswoman greets us as we enter, and when I don't immediately say anything, Jasper reaches his hand around my back and pushes me gently forward. "She'd like to try on the dress in the window," he explains.

"Certainly," the woman says, sizing me up quickly with her eyes, "I'll go get her size."

The woman returns with the dress seconds later, and we follow her back to the dressing rooms. Jasper takes my coat and waits outside with the rest of my bags while I enter the room and lock the door. For a minute I just stare at the dress hesitantly. It's by far the prettiest thing I've ever been in a fitting room with; so much so that I'm actually kind of intimidated by it. But when I reach out and touch the fabric that's so much softer than the harsh synthetic fibers I'm used to, I can't wait any longer. I undress hurriedly and slip the dress on, eager to see how it looks on me.

I should have left it on the freaking hanger.

I don't even have to look in the mirror to see how awkward the dress makes me look. My arms and legs are entirely too bony and knobby to pull something like this off, and the halter-top shows off _way_ more skin than I'm used to. When I do eventually glance up into the mirror, it only makes things worse. My short, choppy brown hair is completely the wrong style for a dress like this, and my overall diminutive size makes me look far more childlike than feminine. It's pretty much a disaster all the way around.

"Alice?" Jasper calls from outside my dressing room, "aren't you going to let me see?"

"Um… no," I say, frowning at myself in the mirror, "I don't want it."

"Don't start that again," he says, misinterpreting my refusal, "I already told you I—"

"No, it's not that. It just—it doesn't fit right. I don't like it."

I'm about to lift the dress back over my head when I hear a knock on the dressing room door.

"Alice," Jasper says, frustrated, "I promise if it looks bad I'll drop it. But if you _don't_ let me see it, I'm just going to assume you're pulling the 'I look bad in everything' shit that girls normally pull, and buy it for you anyway. So come on, let's see it."

I'm not really sure what he means by the 'I look bad in everything' line, but I _am_ sure that if I don't let him have his way, he'll pull the 'I know what's best for you' crap that _he_ normally pulls and buy the stupid dress without my consent. So I drop my head in defeat and open the door.

I can feel his eyes boring into me as I step out of the dressing room, but I'm far too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Instead I just stare at his shoes, trying to figure out the method by which he's managed to tie a knot in his laces. Before I even come close to solving this particular puzzle, Jasper clears his throat, urging me to look up into his face.

I'm a little surprised at what I see when I do. His eyes, which are usually Confederate-grey, have brightened considerably into a pale blue. The expression on his face is completely unreadable—but it's not amusement, or dislike, or any of the other things I expected to see there. It's so intense that it almost looks like anger, though, when paired with the strange glint in his eyes, it's clear that anger is on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum from whatever it is that he's feeling.

"We are _getting_ that dress," he says slowly, using a tone I'm sure I've never heard him use before.

"But it looks terrible," I argue, running my fingers through my hair nervously.

Jasper takes my hand and pulls me forward so that I'm standing in front of a giant three-way mirror in the dressing-room hallway. "Look again," he commands simply.

Stupidly, I do. If anything, these 360° angles just make things worse. _So much of me_ is exposed, that I find myself trying to wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to hide all the places the dress doesn't cover. I'm about to ask Jasper why exactly he thought it was necessary to embarrass me like when he steps up behind me and answers my silent question with one of his own.

"You really don't see it, do you?"

"See what?" I mutter, dropping my head, ashamed and annoyed.

Jasper reaches over my shoulder and places his fingers under my chin, lifting my face to meet his gaze in our reflection. "Alice," he says softly, his blue eyes shining into mine "Look at yourself. You're beautiful."

I'm pretty sure my heart does, in fact, skip a beat. Or two. Or ten. _Jasper called me beautiful?_ I look at his face for some indication that he's teasing or mocking me. But, as was true with the sound of his voice, there's nothing written in his face but absolute sincerity.

_He might need to have his eyesight checked… but Jasper thinks I'm beautiful_.

Before I can help it I feel an embarrassingly large smile twist across my face—which of course, also makes my cheeks flush pink and red and every color in between. The piercing expression in Jasper's eyes finally begins to soften as he laughs at me for my reaction.

"Does that mean we can buy the damn dress now?" he teases.

I still think it looks stupid, but anything that makes Jasper call me _beautiful_ is worth buying, no matter how awkward it makes me feel.

"I'll probably never have anywhere to wear it," I say when I emerge, changed, from the dressing room a few minutes later. I hand the dress over to him anyway, knowing that he'll find a way to refute this argument.

Jasper's eyes have resumed their grayish tint and his face has dissolved back into the same mask of boredom he wore in the linen store earlier. Still, when he tells me, that he's "sure an occasion will present itself," something of that odd, intense tone still lingers in his voice. It's enough to make me shiver with joy.

I'm more than a little sticker-shocked when the saleswoman rings us up, but Jasper doesn't even bat an eye as he hands over his credit card. I thank him sincerely before reminding him, again, that I'm going to pay him back—even if it takes me the better part of a year… which it probably will.

Once we get out in the main part of the mall we divide my bags up fairly evenly between us and begin our journey home. We walk in a sort of contented silence for a while, but when we reach the river, I remember the phone call that spared Jasper the horrors of linen-shopping. I'm fairly curious about it since I've been under the impression that Jasper's not on speaking terms with… anyone, so just as we step out onto the bridge, I casually ask him about the call.

Even though I'm not touching him, I can feel him tense up the moment I mention it. When I look over at him, I can see him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, obviously debating whether or not to answer my question.

"It was my doctor," he sighs finally, ruefully.

I don't even have to ask him what the call was about, having gathered all the information I needed from his tone.

"When?" I ask quietly.

"Not 'till after Christmas," he answers. "The 29th."

This is a mild relief. If it had been sooner, I don't think I could've handled it. I mean, honestly, I just got him back. It's way too soon to have to start dealing with all that hospital crap again. As it is, even the _thought_ of Jasper having to go back into to that stupid place makes my stomach churn.

"Let's talk about something else," Jasper suggests, struggling to control the anger in his voice. "I don't want to think about that shit right now."

It's a good idea, but unfortunately it's pretty difficult to follow up a conversation about surgery with small talk. We walk in silence for a few minutes before I decide to ask him another potentially controversial question, though it at least adheres to his condition that we change the subject.

"Can I ask you something?" I begin, testing the waters. He shoots me another quick, sideways glance before nodding for me to continue. "How do you pay for everything? I mean, the apartment, your car, your hospital bills, food, clothing—how can you afford it all?"

I know it's considered poor taste to ask people about things like that. But it's a question I've been wondering about since he asked me to move in with him, and the way he so casually paid for my dress earlier just made me even more curious. Fortunately, Jasper visibly relaxes at the change in subject, and when he answers, his speech is casual and calm.

"I have insurance," he says in obvious reference to the hospital bills. "As for the rest, I've worked every summer since I was fourteen—last summer being the obvious exception. But my parents pay… or, I guess _were_ paying for college, so I never had any real expenses until now. I've got a fair amount of money saved up so… I'm pretty much set for awhile."

"Oh," I say, wondering for the first time if _I_ have money sitting in a bank somewhere, just waiting for me to remember it exists. The idea kind of infuriates me, so I direct my thoughts and attention back to Jasper's response.

"Where did you work?" I ask him.

"For newspapers and magazines mostly. I started out doing odd jobs around the offices, but eventually I worked my way up to doing some of the editing and writing. It was kinda fun I guess."

Jasper's oddly reverent tone takes me by surprise. I'm pretty sure I've never heard him describe anything as 'fun' before. I find it rather strange that he's never mentioned all this before.

"Is that why you were in school for English? So you could work for a newspaper?"

He shakes his head. "No—that was just a way for me to make some money. I went to school for English 'cause I've always enjoyed reading and writing. I hadn't really thought about what I'd do after… but I guess I always sorta thought I'd write novels or some shit like that. But that was all before I— well… it was _before_."

"And now?" I ask hopefully, trying to ignore the regret and loss in his voice.

The corner of Jasper's mouth twists into an expression that's equal parts a frown and a sardonic smile. "I haven't thought about writing in a long time. That's not… I don't think that's something I could do anymore."

It's been awhile since I've heard that self-deprecatory edge in his voice, and it saddens me to hear it now. It's not that I don't understand where he's coming from. I know what it's like to feel as though your whole life has been lost in one ephemeral instant. I know what it's like to wake up and know, without a doubt, that you can never go back to what you were before.

But I also know how it feels when, despite the impossible odds, you find yourself again. Jasper, it seems, is still searching.

When he attempts to lighten the mood by suggesting that we go grocery shopping after lunch, I answer him enthusiastically, effectively letting the previous subject drop. By the time we get back over to our side of the river, the smile from this morning is back on his face, and any lingering sorrow is gone from his voice. He's happy again, and I have to admit that I'm a little smug in the knowledge that his happiness is at least partially due to my presence.

But though our earlier conversation has ended, it certainly hasn't been forgotten—at least not by me. Almost everything I know about myself, I know because of him. Somehow, he found all the scattered pieces of me when no one else even knew where to look. And though he admittedly screwed up when he pushed me away, he made up for it the minute he looked at the skinny, awkward girl in the mirror and found a way to call her beautiful.

Lots of pieces of him are missing too. I'm sure he thinks they all disintegrated in the same conflagrative moment that he believes ruined his skin. But I know better. He just needs to be shown where to look.

* * *

**Pictures of Alice's dress and the view from the river Jasper mentions (the latter of which I find infinitely more interesting) are up on my profile.**


	14. A Little Bit More

**A/N: Thanks goes to Twila Reaux, who's not only my alpha, but also my very good friend. **

**As always, Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

* * *

**

Chapter Thirteen: _A Little Bit More_

"_And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.   
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before:   
_'_Maybe Christmas,' he thought, 'doesn't come from a store.'_  
'_Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more.'"   
~Dr. Seuss, 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas'

* * *

_

**JPOV**

"Right, that's _it_," I say, slamming my laptop closed and tossing it on the recliner next to the couch.

Alice looks up, startled, from the magazine she's reading. "What's wrong?"

That right there—_that's _what's wrong. Those five words are pretty much the only words we've exchanged since Sunday, and I don't fucking know _why_. I've been wracking my mind for the past two days, trying to figure out what the hell I could've done, but nothing makes any sense. One minute we were decorating the little Christmas tree that I bought for the apartment (well, technically _Alice_ was decorating—apparently there's more than one way to decorate a tree, and my way is the _wrong_ way), and the next minute… nothing. Silence.

"Can you please just tell me what's bothering you?" I say, shifting slightly so I'm looking towards her end of the couch, "I can't… this is driving me insane."

She frowns and tilts her head slightly in confusion. "Nothing's—"

"_Alice_," I warn, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. I've spent the past two days worrying and feeling sick and nervous, always thinking in the back of my mind that whatever I've done this time—it might finally be the last straw for her. If I have to hear that passive-aggressive "I'm fine" bullshit, I'll probably snap.

She looks at me for a minute before sighing and tossing her magazine on the floor. "All right," she says quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest and clasping her fingers together around her ankles, "I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to get angry."

I know I'm in real trouble the minute I see the way she's sitting. I've only seen her do that once before—that night at her house when she was telling me how much I'd hurt her by ignoring her in the hospital. So... what? I've hurt her _again_? _Jesus, Jasper, it hasn't even been three damn weeks! Don't you think you could've waited just a little longer before you screwed things up?_

I take a deep breath to steel myself for whatever she's about to tell me and then nod my head in affirmation, knowing already that whatever the hell it is, I probably have no right to be angry about it.

Alice rests her cheek on her knees, facing me. After several minutes of excruciating silence, she finally says, "You're not gonna see them, are you."

My forehead knots together in confusion. "See who?"

Instead of answering me, Alice lifts her head and glances out into the living room. I follow her gaze until my eyes settle on the Christmas tree in the corner. _I knew it had something to do with that damn tree_. But I'd _asked_ her if it was okay if we got one. Hell, I'd even asked her if she wanted to celebrate Christmas at _all_, knowing that it might be a difficult holiday for her. Both times she'd said 'yes,' and it was clear from the enthusiasm with which she'd thrown herself into decorating that she was enjoying the whole thing. In fact, she'd even asked me to tell her about how I'd celebrated Christmas growing up so that she could—

_Oh._

I remember thinking at the time that it was a really fucking bad idea to be talking to her about my family, but she'd insisted, and when I finally gave in, she actually seemed okay with it—laughing and asking questions and making jokes. But obviously, it'd bothered her more than she'd let on. And dammit, I _get_ why it's upsetting for her—I _get_ that she feels terrible about being so alone, and that my refusal to see my family must seem much like rubbing salt in a fucking festering wound to her—that's why I didn't want to say anything in the _first_ place.

I sigh and push myself up off the couch. Usually I wait until Alice has gone to bed before attempting this ungraceful task, but tonight, unfortunately, it can't wait.

"Hey!" Alice cries as I walk stiffly past her towards my bedroom, "You promised you wouldn't get mad!"

"I'm not mad," I say, shaking my head, "Just hold on a minute. I'll be right back."

Part of the fucking problem here is that she has no idea what kind of hell I've put my family through, which, of course, is my own fault. In the hospital, she didn't really need to know; I was so convinced that I'd never see her again that I could hide things from her without feeling guilty. But now… now I guess it's only fair that she know exactly what kind of monster she's living with. If nothing else, at least it might help her understand that I'm actually _protecting_ my family by staying away from them.

I enter my room and rummage through the drawers of my desk until I find what I'm looking for. When I walk back out into the living room, Alice is still balled up at the far end of the couch, looking like she hasn't so much as taken a breath since I left the room. She raises her head when she sees me though, and watches as I sit down next to her.

"Here," I say, holding the picture out for her to take. She does so timidly, and studies it for a moment before looking back at me in confusion. "My sister's child," I explain.

I wonder how much of our first conversation about my family she remembers; how much I'll have to explain again. I don't have to wait long for an answer—after just a few more seconds of looking at the picture, her forehead smoothes and her shoulders relax in comprehension. "Oh," she says, running her thumb lightly along the edge of the photograph, "so, this is why they got married."

I nod my head in agreement even though she's still concentrating on the picture. "It was stupid—_they_ were stupid—and I told them so. Several times. But they went ahead with it anyway. She's fucking twenty years old—what makes any of them think she can raise a kid? I stopped speaking to Emmett; I stopped speaking to my parents. The last time I said anything to any of them was the night before the wedding. Which I managed to ruin. Twice, actually. Once because of the things I said, and once when I…" I stop, not really knowing how much of my stupid-ass behavior at the lake I'd like to detail for her. "They were married on March 15th," I conclude, hoping she'll understand.

"Oh," she says absently, still processing what I've told her. Suddenly though, she gasps and snaps her head up to look at me. "_Oh_," she repeats purposefully, as her eyes flicker from my face down towards my chest. I may have three layers of clothing on, but I've never felt more fucking exposed than I do in this moment. Instinctively, I bow my head and shove my left hand further into the pocket of my sweatshirt, trying to hide the damage I know she can't possibly see.

"Yeah," I say, after I've paused to calm myself as much as possible, "So you can see why I haven't talked to them. I don't want their pity. And I'm pretty fucking undeserving of their love at this point. So it's best that I just stay away. They can move on. I can move on. No more lives get ruined."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Alice's gaze move back and forth between my face and the boy in the picture. Hopefully she's able to reach the conclusion I do every time I make the same comparison. He's just a baby—he's the one who needs the attention, the support, the care, the affection. Rosalie and Emmett—they need all that too, even if they did make a fucking stupid decision. I don't factor into that equation anywhere, except possibly as a negative force, draining and straining my family's capacity for patience and love.

"So, you think because you said something stupid, and _did_ something stupid, your family's better off without you. And you're better off without them."

I roll my eyes and lean my head back against the couch. Judging by the slightly sarcastic tone in her voice, we haven't reached the same conclusion after all.

"It wasn't just _one_ stupid thing, Alice. It was a whole _shitload_ of 'em. I did everything short of calling my sister a whore. I broke my friend's nose. I told my mom and dad that they were bad parents. I made an ass of myself in front of all our friends and family. And then I—"

I stop, suddenly aware that my voice is trembling—not from anger, but from the steadily increasing constriction of my throat. Of course I've always been aware of how much I've screwed things up, but hearing it all aloud like that, facing for the first time the exact measure of shame… _holy shit_.

I close my eyes and shake my head slowly against the back of the couch. "Of course they're better off without me."

It doesn't surprise me that Alice doesn't argue—after all I've just spelled out for her, I'm pretty fucking certain she gets it by now. In fact, after what I've just told her, it's a wonder she's even still sitting next to me. And even that doesn't last long.

"It's late," she says, as I feel her finally unravel herself and get up off the couch. She doesn't make a move to leave though, and after several rather unnerving moments of listening to her quiet breathing, I finally open my eyes to see her standing right in front of me, one hand on her hip, and one hand holding the picture out to me, which I take without looking at it.

"Obviously I don't have much experience with what you're talking about," she says, smiling slightly, though not sadly. "But still, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

Instead of explaining what she means by that fucking elusive comment, she just grins again, says 'goodnight,' and walks off towards her bedroom. I shake my head in frustration; as much as I'm glad that she's not currently packing her things to leave, part of me is a little appalled that she can still smile at me after learning all the things I've done.

I sigh and look down at the picture in my hand, expecting to see, as I've always seen in the boy's face, validation of my decision to keep my family away from me. Without my realizing it, however, Alice has handed me the picture face down. So, instead of getting validation of _my_ thoughts, I see, for the first time, the truth behind hers.

"_I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."_

_Charles Jasper Hale._

----------

The year we turned thirteen, Rose and I fought over the venue for our joint birthday party. I wanted to go to go-karting and mini-golfing at Fire Mountain, and she wanted to have a dance at our house (which, even now, I still think was a pretty fucking lame idea). When our parents announced that Rose's idea won 'cause it was 'more practical than transporting dozens of kids back and forth between our house and the park,' my sister shot me this look of condescending smugness that made me want to smack her upside the head. I managed to refrain from physical violence, but I did, eventually, get even.

The night before the party, I snuck into her room while she was sleeping and cut several chunks out of her hair. She ended up having to get most of it cut off in order to correct the damage I'd done. As a result, in all the birthday pictures from that year she looks like some horrific combination of Ellen Degeneres and Mark-Paul Gosselaar circa _Saved by the Bell_. Me, I'm not in those pictures at all, since my ass got grounded the minute my parents figured out what I'd done.

Obviously, I deserved it. Even so, it was pretty upsetting to have to sit upstairs and listen while other people celebrated my birthday. I remember listening as they all sang to Rose and thinking to myself that they probably weren't even going to save me a piece of cake. Just as I thought that though, I heard a knock on my door. When I opened it no one was there, but sitting on the ground was a plate on which rested a neat square of chocolate cake with chocolate icing; my fucking favorite. It took me all of about two seconds to figure out who'd put it there—my parents were extremely strict in seeing punishments through to the end, and none of my friends would have been allowed upstairs to see me. Bringing me that piece of cake didn't exactly mean that I was forgiven, but for my sister, it was a step in that direction.

Rose and I are alike in our unfortunate inability to clearly articulate any emotion except anger. As a result, for weeks after the whole birthday fiasco we didn't talk to each other at all. But in our reticence, we said more than we ever could've said with words. Though neither of us ever mentioned either the ruined hair or the ruined party, the fact that I was the one to eventually break our mutual silence signified both an admission and an apology—just as whatever she'd said to me in return was evidence of her forgiveness. It may sound strange, but that's the way it was with us. That's the way it's always been.

When I first got the picture of Rose's son in the hospital, I had no fucking clue why she would choose to give him my name. First of all, the name itself is pretty stupid—I've always thought it sounded better suited for an 18th century British aristocrat than… well, pretty much _anyone_ living in the modern-day United States. But even if the name weren't so ridiculous, I still couldn't understand why she would want any part of _me_ to be a part of _him_ as well.

It's taken me more than twelve hours of thinking and reasoning and staring at his picture and replaying Alice's words in my head, but I think I might finally get it now.

_He's my fucking birthday cake._

Well, if I'm being honest, I suppose that technically only about an hour or so of my sleepless night was devoted to that particular revelation. The rest of the time has been spent trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do about it. After all, the things I've done this time are a little more serious than hacking off a few strands of hair. Hair grows back; birthdays come and go. But recently I've made wounds that take far longer to heal—that may _never_ heal. And it's not just one person I've hurt this time either, it's my whole _family_. How on earth do I start trying to make up for all that?

For what's probably the thousandth time since last night, I look warily at the cell phone sitting on my desk. At first, I was putting off calling until Alice had left for work, and then, once she'd gone, I'd remembered the time difference between Texas and Pennsylvania, which effectively bought me a few more hours. It's almost noon now though, and my perfectly valid excuses for not making the call have officially run out. Clearly, at this point, I'm stalling out of fear.

_Or shame, or nervousness, or self-loathing… take your fucking pick._

Slowly, I reach over and pick up my phone, while trying as hard as I can to ignore the tremors in my hand. I stare at it for a few minutes before finally working up the courage to flip it open. My shaking fingers dial the number carefully, and somehow I successfully fight the almost overwhelming urge to pause dramatically over the last digit. This accomplishment seems like a small victory over my nervous consciousness, until of course I lift the phone to my ear and find myself sending up a small prayer that the call goes directly to voicemail. Since my prayers never do seem to get to where I intend for them to go however, the line continues to ring until it's answered.

"Hello?"

Time has changed my sister's voice in subtle ways that are probably only recognizable to someone who both knows her well and who hasn't heard her speak for months. She sounds older, tired, tense—all of which is to be expected I guess when one becomes a mother so young. Somehow though, and somewhat surprisingly, she doesn't sound unhappy.

"_Hello_?" she says again, drawing out the 'o' to emphasize her annoyance at my silence. I know her next step is to hang up on me, so I take a small, defeated breath and clear my throat.

"Rosalie?"

Her end of the line goes so quiet that, for a minute, I'm almost sure she actually _has_ hung up. Which would be pretty damn fair, I suppose. But just as I'm about to shut my phone, I hear a quiet rustling that assures me she's still there.

"Hang on," she says, as the noise of her movement continues to echo through my earpiece. She has a quick, incomprehensibly soft conversation with someone, and I tense up a little when I realize that she's not alone. However, I then hear the unmistakable sound of her high heels clacking against the floor, which is eventually punctuated with the barely audible _click_ of a shutting door.

"All right," she says, more quietly than before. "Mom and dad are here. I figured you wouldn't want… Anyway, I'm alone now."

I'm a little ashamed that she feels the need to sneak around like that, but at the same time I'm also really fucking grateful that she understands, without my having to explain it, the need for privacy.

"How are you?" she continues when I don't speak immediately. "_Where _are you? I don't recognize this number."

I clear my throat again self-consciously, wondering, briefly, if my voice has undergone any noticeable changes as well.

"I'm… okay," I start. It's a bullshit answer and we both know it. But details aren't something I'm prepared to give at this point, so for now she'll have to live with equivocation. "I'm still in Philly," I continue, "but I, uh… I had to get a new phone." That much at least is true. My phone, my wallet, my clothes—pretty much everything I had with me the night of the fire were thoroughly and irreparably destroyed.

"You changed your _number_ though," she insists, seeing right through my fruitless attempt at evasion. "No wonder mom hasn't been able to get through to you."

I shut my eyes tightly and massage my temple with the top of my phone. Direct accusation isn't exactly my sister's style, but insinuation and veiled implications—those are different matters entirely. Obviously she's not gonna make this easy. Not that I had any right to expect that it would be.

"Why'd you call, Jasper?" she finally asks after a few more minutes of silence.

My reasons for calling seemed pretty damn clear about ten minutes ago, but now I can't seem to remember a single one of them. The only thing passing through my mind right now is the word "mistake," over and over again, like a goddamn broken record. I frantically search my mind for any word that doesn't begin with the letter 'M,' and finally settle on repeating her first question back to her.

"Um… How are you, Rose?"

She pauses for a moment before returning the gesture. "I'm _okay_," she scoffs coolly. "Mom, dad, Emmett; we're all _okay_."

I shake my head wearily from side to side. I'd been hoping that our mutual silence during the past nine months would be enough to dissipate some of her anger. Clearly I should've given it more time. I didn't call to pick a fucking fight with her, but the angrier she gets, the harder it becomes for me to control my own complementary frustration. I take a few shallow breaths to calm myself as best I can, knowing that eventually, she'll either soften or hang up on me. Either way, at least I'll know where I stand.

"What about your… How about the… the—"

"_Your nephew's_ fine."

I flinch involuntarily at her words, not because of her biting tone, but because it's always been difficult to think of 'her child' as 'my nephew.' At first, my aversion was due to the fact that I blamed him for ruining my sister's life. Even after I'd directed all that blame back towards myself, where it belonged, I found that I still couldn't really bring myself to think of him as _my_ _anything._ After all, what the hell kind of uncle wishes his nephew had never been born?

"He's big now;" Rosalie says unexpectedly, hesitantly, her voice suddenly much more gentle, "huge actually. He eats like a horse."

_Just like his fucking dad_, I think to myself, remembering how difficult it was to keep food in the house when I lived with Emmett. It didn't matter what it was, or how long it'd been in the refrigerator, or who'd bought it—Emmett would _always_ eat it.

"Em calls him Chip," Rosalie continues, a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Uh… Chip?" I ask cautiously, not wanting to offend her, but honestly believing that that is, in fact, the _worst_ nickname I've ever heard in my life.

"Yeah, you know, like, 'a chip off the old block?' He thinks it's clever." I can't help but smile at her tone. 'Indulgent sarcasm' is definitely one of the languages one comes to learn well whenever spending time around Emmett.

"Did you get the picture I sent?"

"Yes," I say, turning unthinkingly to look at the photograph in question.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" she sighs affectionately.

Something clicks for me in that second, when I hear Rose speak with such reverence about the little boy in the picture. Even when I stopped actively blaming him for all the trouble his birth had caused, I still considered him to be nothing more than a disastrous mistake—something my sister would end up regretting for the rest of her life. But the way Rose speaks about him now, I realize that even though he was conceived in a fucking stupid way, he will _never_ be a mistake—not to her, nor to anyone else who loves him.

"Yeah, he's beautiful."

"He looks a lot like you, you know," Rosalie says, the timbre of her voice sounding hoarse and choked and strangely similar to my own.

I wince and breathe in sharply as I process her words. I'm sure she thinks she's being sincere—nice even. But Rose never saw me after the fire, so she has no idea how wrong she is. She can't really know how little I resemble the boy she holds in her arms each night; how little I resemble any fucking normal person at all.

"You're not coming home, are you?" she whispers after a few minutes.

I swallow deeply to try and ease the pressure building in my throat. "No. Not yet."

Rose breathes deeply into the phone, and I can tell that she's fighting for the same control over her emotions that I've been struggling with throughout this whole damn conversation. "You know I'm going to have to tell them you called," she says finally, her voice tight. "But I'll tell them you're o—" she stops herself before using the prevericative word we've both been tossing around. "I'll tell them you're doing fine."

"Thank you," I say, relaxing minutely as I decipher the meaning behind her words. Obviously, she'll have to let my parents know that she's talked to me—that much, I guess, I expected. But she's also going to reassure them about my… _condition_ enough that they won't be tempted to do something stupid like fly out here to see me. Essentially, she's giving me time to work through some more of my shit on my own before I really have to deal with facing my family. Considering the surgery I have coming up in a few days, this guaranteed privacy is crucial. Also, I really don't want to have to deal with anyone else's views on my relationship with Alice right now—especially when I'm not even fucking certain myself what that relationship is. I get that it's not an indefinite amount of time my sister's granting me, and that sooner rather than later, I'll have to face all the crap I've been avoiding. But for now at least, she can put my parents' worries to rest, and my family and I can live in the relative peace of knowing that eventually, a kind of resolution will occur.

"You'll keep this number," she says quickly, a statement rather than a question.

I smile a bit when I recognize the condition on which she's predicating her cooperation. "Yes. I'll answer if you call."

Her end of the line goes almost silent again, though I can tell from her steady breathing that she hasn't hung up. There's not much else I can think of to say, so I'm just about to open my mouth to tell her goodbye when her voice stops me.

"I'm not sure if I'll talk to you before then, so… Merry Christmas, Jasper."

There's no anger in her voice now, nor tiredness nor sadness, nor any of the other things I've heard from her during this conversation. For the first time in months—_years_ even—my sister, the girl I grew up with, the twin I shared almost everything with, is speaking to me. When my mind recognizes this familiar voice, all the memories I'd told Alice the other night come flooding back with renewed intensity and meaning.

_The Christmas before we were born, my parents found a bird's nest hidden in their tree, and that's how they knew that we'd be healthy and happy, since finding a nest is supposed to be a sign of good luck._

_When we were five, Rose was so sick with the flu that she couldn't even get up to open her presents. My parents said that I could open mine without her, but I waited, for four days after Christmas, until we could do it together._

_I remember the year that Rose and I decorated the tree by ourselves, and our mom had to rearrange everything while we slept 'cause it looked so awful. Some things never change, I guess._

_I remember listening to Christmas songs on the radio while we decorated Christmas cookies, and eating so much of the dough that we made ourselves sick._

_I remember sleeping on the floor in my sister's room so we could try to stay up and hear Santa and his reindeer on our roof. We stayed up for so long that my dad eventually snuck out there and started banging around so that we'd finally go to sleep._

_I remember…_

"You too, Rose. Merry Christmas."

A soft _click_ in my earpiece assures me that she really hangs up this time. I pull the phone away from my ear, and sit there watching the little call-duration display flash 5:23 until the power saver kicks in and the screen goes dark. Five minutes. _Jesus Christ, it felt like a fucking lifetime_.

I toss the phone on my bed next to me and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I'm exhausted and drained, and honestly a little bit confused by the fucking awkward conversation I've just had. But somehow, I also feel oddly lighter, more relaxed, like something I didn't even realize had been strangling me has suddenly loosed its hold and I can breathe again. And I do, breathe deeply, savoring the way the air feels in my fully-expanded lungs.

I pivot gently to lie back against my pillows and shut my eyes, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before I pick Alice up from work. I'm sure that somehow, she'll know without being told that I've been in touch with my family; Alice is almost freakishly perceptive like that. It's the same way she knew, even before I did, that I missed them. But though I'm obviously fucking ecstatic that we'll be talking again, I'm not exactly sure what I'll say when she asks me how things went. Our conversation was characterized more by silence than by actual words. But somehow, despite, or perhaps _due to_ all the pauses and the quiet, my sister and I at least have reached some sort of understanding, however vague it may be. I have no idea how the hell we got there, but it's a good first step all the same.

*******

**APOV**

Jasper comes out into the kitchen the moment he hears me turn off the stove. He waits for me to transfer the omelet I've just finished making onto a plate before wrapping his arm around me and pulling me to him. Even though the smell of breakfast food lingers heavily in the air, the moment I'm pressed up against him, I become totally immersed in his scent: wheat, rain, silk, and cotton, all at once—without a doubt, the most delicious smell in the world.

"What's this for?" I murmur contentedly against his chest.

Jasper squeezes me gently before taking a step backwards, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "It's Christmas," he shrugs. The warm grin on his face quickly changes into open-mouthed shock when his eyes travel over to the kitchen table. "Jesus, Alice. Just how many people were you planning on feeding this morning?"

I look over at the table sheepishly. I'll admit that somewhere in the planning stages of my "brunch on Christmas" idea, things may have gotten _slightly_ out of hand. What started out as a simple menu of eggs and French toast somehow developed into a fruit cocktail, muffins, sausage, bacon, and pancakes… in addition to the omelets and the bread.

"We don't have to finish it all right _now_," I say, placing the final plate on the table and taking a seat, "whatever we don't eat we can save for leftovers."

Jasper shakes his head and sits down across from me. "We'll be eating this for a week," he laughs as spears a piece of his omelet on his fork. He pops it in his mouth and chews conscientiously for a minute before smiling and adding, "which is absolutely fine with me."

I relax a little at the knowledge that he actually likes my cooking. Technically, I've been doing all the cooking for weeks now, but things like spaghetti and Hamburger Helper hardly qualify as home-cooked meals. Today's the first time I've actually made him anything from scratch—it's part of my Christmas present to him. Brunch was the easy part since breakfast foods are just about all I can make well, but dinner tonight will be more difficult: ham, twice-baked potatoes, corn pudding, and biscuits. According to Jasper, these are the makings of a typical Southern Christmas dinner. More importantly however, these are all things he would be eating if he were with his family.

A few days ago, he probably would have found such a gesture on my part antagonistic, and I suppose I can understand why he might have thought that, even though it wouldn't have been true. I've never wanted to push him into doing anything he's not comfortable with, or even remind him of things he'd rather forget. But on Sunday, I realized from the way that he was talking about his family that he missed them far more than he'd ever let on—possibly even more than he was willing or able to admit to himself. The voice he'd used to describe them that day was the exact same voice he'd used when he was sitting on my bed at my old house, telling me that he regretted pushing me away. He was hurting for them in a way I'd never heard him hurt for anything. The pain was so great for him, in fact, that his words eventually failed him and he went silent. Though he may think otherwise, _he_ was the one who stopped talking that night, not I.

Of course, all that changed after he called his sister. I don't know exactly what happened between them, and honestly, I have neither right nor desire to know the specifics. All that matters to me is that he's talking, laughing, and smiling again—there's not much else I really need to know.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit to feeling a little insecure in the knowledge that, while Jasper is quite literally all I have, he obviously longs for things that I can never give him. I can't be his mother or his father or his sister or his brother, but he's all those things to me. Until I learn otherwise at least (which is becoming increasingly less and less likely, given that I haven't had a single memory since that night in the hospital), Jasper encompasses the entirety of my family. And still, I have no idea what I am to him.

"You gonna eat those?" Jasper asks, calling me back to reality. I look up to see him staring at the relatively untouched sausage links on my plate. I smile and shove my plate across the table, pleased that Jasper seems to be enjoying the first of his gifts.

When we're both finished eating, Jasper helps me clear the table and then stands in the kitchen and talks to me while I clean the dishes, as per the arrangement I set forth that first night we ate together. I'm finishing up with the last few pans when Jasper's conversational tone suddenly becomes serious.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I look up at him, confused. In answer to my silent question, he directs his gaze towards my right hip, which I didn't even realize I'd been massaging gently with my hand. I glance out the window, and sure enough, dark clouds are just beginning to form in the sky.

"It's nothing, honestly" I say, opening the cupboard next to the sink and standing on my toes to try and reach the shelves where the pans go.

Jasper frowns at me as he takes the pans from my hand and puts them effortlessly back where they belong. "You sure, kid? You've been doing that all morning."

"Yes, _I'm fine_," I repeat, rolling my eyes in a gesture of annoyance, even though part of me is secretly thrilled that he watches me closely enough to notice things like that. "It's just the weather, _Jazz_."

I'd thought up that nickname in an effort to get him to lay off the 'kid' stuff. Of course, that whole plan backfired when I realized that he thought it was the coolest thing he'd ever heard. He even changed the freaking screen saver on his computer to scroll, "Jazz plays here" at regular intervals. That poor attempt at a pun was almost enough to get me to drop the name altogether, but the way he beams at me when I use it—the way he's beaming at me now, in fact—is incentive enough for me to keep it in use.

"What does the weather have to do with anything?" he asks as he follows me out into the living room.

"I dunno," I say indifferently, collapsing onto the couch. "Whenever it's going to rain or something, my hip gets a little sore, that's all."

Jasper slowly sinks down next to me. "Always?"

"It hasn't failed me yet."

He stares out the window silently for a few minutes before turning his attention back to me. "Okay, if you're _that_ sure, then how about a bet?" he asks playfully.

"You don't believe me?" I challenge. He shrugs in response. "What do you mean, '_bet_'?"

Jasper looks up at the ceiling in thought for a minute, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "If it doesn't rain before 12:00am, I win. And if I win, then we're going out to dinner sometime."

I look quickly down at my lap in a vain attempt to hide the furious blush that spreads across my face at his words. Jasper's proposed such an outing a few times before, usually on nights when I'm working late and yet still insist on making dinner when I get home. So I know his suggestion is only made out of an irrational guilt he feels at having me cook for him. Even so, I can't stop the absurd fluttering of my heart that occurs whenever I think of the two of us going out on what, in any other context, could possibly be seen as a date.

"Deal?" Jasper says, thankfully ignoring my scarlet face and extending his hand to me.

"Don't I get to state my terms as well?" I ask. Jasper drops his hand and nods for me to continue. I think for a second, and then decide that if he can play up the guilt angle, then so can I. "_When_ I win," I say, gaining back my confidence through my assurance that this particular bet is one I can't lose, "you start actually cashing the checks I give you each week." I don't give him much—far less than I'm sure I _should_ be paying to live in an apartment like this—but I still try to give him everything I can afford so I don't feel like a _complete_ freeloader.

Jasper rolls his eyes, but holds out his hand again which I take. "Deal."

"In the meantime…" he hedges, glancing slyly out towards the living room. I don't even have to follow his eyes to know what they land on. This is a moment I've been simultaneously dreading and looking forward to for weeks now: the celebration of my "first" Christmas. There aren't many presents under our tree—three from Jasper and two from me—nothing too dramatic, really. But I'm fairly confident that Jasper has found a way to go completely overboard despite my repeated insistence that he keep it simple. In addition, picking out suitable presents for him was next to impossible. The things I finally settled on have seemed daily more ridiculous the longer they've sat beneath the tree.

Honestly though, what do you get someone who was the only person to ever seek you out? The only person to ever want to find you? What do you get for someone when you want to tell him that you love him, but are too afraid to say the words?

Jasper pushes himself up off the couch and walks over to the tree. ""You first," he says, piling his three gifts up and then handing them out for me to take. "Start with the little one."

I set the other presents down on the couch and pick up the 'little one,' which is nothing more than a small, thick envelope. I place my finger underneath the back flap and begin to tear gently, trying to convince myself that something so small can't possibly be _that_ bad. Of course, because it's from Jasper, I couldn't be more wrong.

"_Jasper_," I groan as I flip through the five separate gift cards to clothing stores around the city, "I _told_ you not to _do_ this."

"Don't pretend like you don't like it," he admonishes, "I know you've been dying to go shopping again since we got that dress. Now you can. And I don't even want to hear that crap about how it's 'too much,'" he says, stopping me just before I can say it. "I've already told you that's not an issue."

I frown and run my hand through my hair insecurely. For _him_, maybe it's not an issue, but for me it definitely is. He's already spent more on this one gift than I spent on both of mine for him combined. So even though he's right that I want and, truthfully, _need_ to go shopping, this doesn't really seem like a fair way for it to happen.

"Stop," Jasper says, lightly gripping my wrist and gently pulling my hand down to my side, "I wanted to do this for you. Can you _please_ just be happy about it?"

The small but genuine traces of hurt in Jasper's voice are enough to make my frown disappear and my attitude towards his presents soften a little. Clearly, it's still too much, and the ever-increasing list of things that I owe Jasper has just grown exponentially. But for now at least, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to show a little tact.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, slipping my captive wrist backwards in his grasp until my fingers are entwined with his, "I can definitely use these."

"You're welcome," Jasper says, squeezing my hand gently. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Here," he continues, reaching for the biggest item in the pile, "open this one next."

I tear at the wrapping a little less reservedly this time, and gasp aloud when I see the contents of the box. Shoes. He got me shoes. And not just any shoes—_really_ nice black ones that are obviously a perfect match for the dress that's hanging in my closet.

"You picked these out?" I ask suspiciously, smiling inwardly at the thought of Jasper in a women's shoe store.

"_Hell_ no," Jasper laughs, probably picturing the same image. "I got your size from the shoes in your closet and then I called up the store where we got the dress and someone there picked them out. I know it's a little impersonal, but if I'd chosen them, you probably woulda ended up with loafers or some shit. I figured you'd like these better."

"They're _perfect_," I say, as I rub the soft satin of the straps beneath my fingers. "Thank you so much."

"No problem. You can wear them when I win my bet."

I feel the heat rise to my face again, which I try to hide this time by busying myself with rearranging the shoes in the box they came in. When the flush finally fades from my cheeks, I look up to see Jasper staring nervously at my final present.

"I wasn't sure about this one," he says, handing it out to me hesitantly, "I don't know if you'll like it. If not, don't worry about it. It was just an idea."

I take the envelope from his hand apprehensively, not really knowing what to expect with an introduction like that. I tear the back of the envelope off, and pull out a monogrammed letter from something called the Fairmount Art Center. It takes me a few times reading it through before I finally understand what the gift is, but when I do, my heart swells with so much excitement that I think I might burst.

"_Really_?! I can really do this?"

Jasper appears to relax a little when he senses my enthusiasm. "If you want to. I hope you don't mind—I took them some samples of your stuff and they were really impressed. We'll have to go online to look up the class times, but—_hey_!"

Hugging someone while sitting a couch isn't exactly the easiest thing to do—especially when that someone is Jasper, whom I could hurt so easily without meaning to. But hugging him is the _only_ thing I can think of to do in this moment, so while he's still speaking, I pretty much launch myself—as carefully as possible given the circumstances—into his side. The way he flinches at the contact immediately sobers my mood, but before I can pull completely away from him, he drapes his arm loosely over my shoulders and holds me gently against his side.

"I'm glad you like it. There _is_ a caveat though," he adds.

"Caveat?" I say, confused by both the word and his sudden change of tone.

"A condition. The studio, it's kinda far away—probably a little too far to walk. It would probably be better if I could drive you there. But don't worry, kid," he says when I shudder involuntarily at his suggestion, "Classes don't start for a few months. We'll work on it; I'll help you. And if you're still uncomfortable with it by the time classes start, I'll walk you the whole six damn miles myself. But I think it's a good goal to shoot for."

I nod slightly against Jasper's chest, my tense muscles beginning to loosen under the influence of his promise to help me. "Does this mean you're going to start helping me in the kitchen?" I ask, almost as a joke.

"Mmm, '_help_' might be a bit too strong a word at this point," he answers seriously. "But yeah. I'll try."

This sudden determination on his part surprises me a little, since I've always considered Jasper's fears to be far more pronounced than mine. But he's also more aware of the limitations his fears place on him—more ashamed of them—and thus more eager for them to disappear. Whereas my phobias are a mere inconvenience for me, Jasper sees his as the things that are keeping him from being whole.

"Thank you for all this," I say, unraveling myself from under Jasper's arm and turning my body to face his on the couch. "What I got you… it doesn't even compare."

Jasper sighs and shakes his head. "Don't worry about that, Alice. I'm sure whatever you got is fine. But if it's making you that uncomfortable, you don't have to give me anything at all. I wouldn't mind."

"Unlikely, Jazz," I snort as I stand up and walk over to the tree. As tempting as his idea is, I have to give him _something_ after everything he's just given to me—even if that something is pretty freaking stupid. I grab my two bags by their handles and resume my place on the couch, determined to do this, even though I risk serious embarrassment. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I pick up the lighter of the two bags and hand it to him.

"It's a scarf," I say dejectedly, before he's even gotten a chance to open it.

Jasper immediately bursts into a fit of laughter, during which he throws his head back so hard against the couch that I'm actually afraid he's hurt himself. When I'm quite certain that he hasn't, I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the floor, waiting for his laughter to subside.

"It's great," he says finally, struggling to make his words coherent through his lingering laughter.

"You haven't even _opened_ it," I pout, continuing to avert my gaze.

"I still think it's great," he repeats before reaching into the bag and pulling out his gift. "Here—tell me how it looks."

I have to laugh a little when I look up and see the awkward way he's wrapped it around his neck—like he's trying to strangle himself or something. I roll my eyes and get up on my knees so that I can better straighten out the mess he's made, all the while trying very hard to ignore the slight shivering that passes through my body every time my fingers brush against his skin. When I've finally gotten it adjusted, I rock back on my heels to see the full effect.

"It looks…" I pause, not knowing how to finish that sentence without making a fool out of myself. Just as I knew it would, the grey in the scarf complements his eyes perfectly and looks gorgeous set against the medium tones of his skin. It's just a stupid scarf, I know, but the way Jasper wears it—he looks _really freaking_ "… good," I conclude, weakly, "It looks good on you."

"Thanks," Jasper smiles, "Like I said, it's great. Now, are you gonna let me open the next one on my own, or would you like to tell me what it is now?"

I grimace slightly as I sit back down on the couch. This is the present I've really been nervous about; this is the one I almost wish I could take back. It's too late for that now though, so I nod for him to continue, and close my eyes the minute his hand comes into contact with the tissue paper. The rustling stops after a few seconds, so I know _he_ knows what it is, but for whatever reason, I still feel the need to explain myself.

"It's a journal… You know, in case you ever want to start writing again."

When he doesn't speak, I open my eyes cautiously to see him running his fingers over the soft leather binding. I groan inwardly when I realize that he hasn't opened it, which means that he still has yet to discover the most embarrassing part about the whole thing. "You have to open it," I tell him, figuring that, since he'll find out eventually, he may as well do it now.

He shoots me a quick, curious look before opening the journal to reveal the four drawings I've made on the inside cover: the restaurant where Jasper and I saw each other for the first time, the outside of the hotel where I work, the mall where Jasper took me shopping for my dress, and the living room of our apartment. Jasper studies this odd collection of images for a second before looking back at me for explanation.

"A while ago, you asked me what my favorite place in the city was," I say quietly, avoiding his eyes. "So far, I have four of them."

For the longest time, neither of us moves, and I can't even be sure whether Jasper is looking at me, or at the journal, or at something else entirely. The only thing I'm aware of is the phrase '_stupid girl'_ that's repeating in my head incessantly and making me want to curl up in shame. Before I can actually act on this impulse however, I see Jasper set the book down on his other side, and then feel his arm wrap around me and pull me to him with more force than I think he's ever used with me. It's not gentle or tender or sweet like the hug he gave me the morning—it's something more insistent, more urgent, almost like the hug we shared the first night I moved in with him.

"That's the best damn present _ever_," he says, bending his head down to rest it on top of mine.

"You really like it?" I ask, though of course both his words and his actions make this question a bit superfluous.

"I _love_ it, Alice," he murmurs into my hair, so that the vibrations that begin with his voice continue to radiate through me long after they leave his lips. "Thank you. I…" His voice trails off as he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "Best damn present _ever_."

"You're welcome," I say, burying my face happily into his chest. _I love you_, I add silently, wishing more than ever that I had the courage to say it out loud.

It takes a few minutes, but finally Jasper's grip begins to loosen and I reluctantly sit upright again. When our eyes meet, I see that his are once again marked by that same bluish hue that they assumed the day I tried on my dress for him. I have to look away because of the strange intensity emanating from him, but before I do, I _swear_ I actually see a faint rush of pink color his cheeks.

"I have to start dinner," I hedge awkwardly. "Are you going to be all right?"

Jasper nods. "I'll clean up out here."

Even though I suggest the whole 'starting dinner' thing as a way to give myself the necessary space to calm down, it's a good freaking thing I start so early, 'cause following recipes isn't _nearly_ as easy as it sounds. It takes me a good thirty minutes to gather all the necessary ingredients, and another hour or so to chop and measure and divide everything into the right amounts. Jasper takes his time 'cleaning the living room,' but eventually, true to his word, he comes out and sits nervously at the kitchen table while I continue to cook. I try talking to him for the first few minutes, but the poor guy can barely form a sentence, so eventually I just shut up and work faster, hoping that I can lessen the duration of his agony.

I don't realize how pale his skin has gotten until I finally turn off the oven and see the color slowly returning to his face. It almost makes me sick to see him like that after how happy we were only a few hours before. That something could have hurt him so severely; that something could cause him to react this way… it's frightening really. Of course, I'm sure when I start trying to get used to cars again, the word 'frightening' will assume a whole new meaning for me.

"That was fucking rough," Jasper says hoarsely as I begin bringing the food out to the table.

"You made it though," I say in a lame attempt to find something positive in what he's just been through. Jasper just nods slightly and closes his eyes. "Do you want to wait?" I ask, recognizing that food may be the absolute last thing on his mind right now.

"No," he says immediately, "no, I'm fine now. Honestly. Let's eat."

Whether because his nerves are all shot to hell or because he's just not paying attention, Jasper unthinkingly reaches out to grab the handle of the corn dish, which is still hot from being in the oven. Fortunately I realize what's about to happen the second before it actually does, but _unfortunately_ there's not time to do much else other than slap his hand out of the way.

"_Fuck_, Alice," Jasper yells, shaking his hand out in the air, "what the hell was that for?"

"_Hot,_" I say unapologetically as I point at the dish.

Comprehension flickers immediately over Jasper's face as he realizes what just almost happened. "Sorry," he sighs, looking down at his empty plate, "I wasn't… Maybe you oughta handle the food."

I do—_carefully_. Once it's all dished out and we begin eating, Jasper's mood improves considerably. During the meal he describes the different types of classes I can enroll in at the art institute, which of course gets me so excited again that eventually, he has to remind me to eat.

The meal itself is seriously flawed. The ham is too dry, the corn is too runny, the potato skins are far too crispy. The only things that've managed to emerge unscathed from my futile cooking endeavor are the biscuits, the credit for which goes not to me, but to Pillsbury. If Jasper notices my mistakes though, he doesn't comment on them. He even dutifully asks for seconds when he's done with his first helping. His patience is rewarded when I serve peach cobbler for dessert. Which I bought pre-made from a bakery.

After we're done with the dinner and the kitchen is cleaned, we walk back out into the living room. I ended our unspoken agreement about the television about a week ago when I realized that just sitting together in silence each night was getting a little old, so once we're seated Jasper flips through the channels until he lands on some apparently hilarious Christmas movie starring some guy whose name sounds like an automobile. I sit through it for a little while, but eventually the physical and emotional exhaustion of the day must catch up with me, because the next thing I know, Jasper's gently shaking my shoulder, urging me awake.

"Wake up, kid," he's saying softly, the corners of his mouth lifted into a complacent smile.

"What is it?" I say groggily, a little annoyed that he's woken me from my nap.

"I just thought you should know that you were wrong about the rain."

My eyes flicker to the digital clock on top of the television. "Jazz, it's only 9:30," I groan, _definitely _annoyed now. "You said we had till midnight."

"Doesn't matter," he insists smugly. "You're still wrong. C'mon, get up."

I close my eyes again, hoping, futilely, that he'll just leave me alone. Seconds later though, I feel him get up off the couch and start slipping my sneakers onto my feet, not even bothering to tie them. Then, he grips my hand and pulls me up into a standing position.

"What are you _doing_?" I say, as I stumble into him. Instead of answering me, he just leads me towards the balcony door, which he opens and guides me through. For a moment, all I can process is that my hair's getting wet. But when my mind eventually begins working again, I finally understand that Jasper's right: I was wrong about the rain.

A thin blanket of white covers every surface below us, and soft, powdery crystals are falling heavily from the sky. Each time one of them lands on me, I feel a quick blast of cold, followed by a cool fire as the flake dissolves into my skin, like it's becoming a part of me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, knowing that this is not the first time I've ever had this exact same thought.

I don't even realize that Jasper has left me until he returns and drapes his heavy coat over my shoulders, not even appearing to care that it's so big on me that it drags on the ground. When I'm completely enveloped in both his warmth and his scent, he wraps his arm around my front and pulls me gently back against him so that we're both looking out at the frozen skyline.

"Are you all right?" he asks concernedly after a few minutes.

I smile and lean back into him. "I'm better than _all right_," I whisper. "I remember the snow."

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**Also, Rose's haircut, Alice's shoes, and Jasper's scarf and journal are all up on my profile.**


	15. Lessons in Longing

**A/N: Hey guys... sorry again for the massive delay. I'm done with the thesis now, and I've made a commitment to write a few pages of this story every single night from now on, so this really shouldn't happen again. Thank you all so much for your patience!**

**Massive thanks (as always!) to my alpha Twila Reaux for all her work on this chapter. There were times while writing this when I wanted to kill Alice and Jasper. She kept them alive ;-)**

**Also, thanks to everyone who has been reviewing and adding this story, even despite my extended absence. I know it's been frustrating, so thanks for sticking with me!  
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**A lot has changed over the past month... but I still don't own Twilight or any of its characters. Those belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

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Chapter Fourteen: _Lessons in Longing_

"_Quand tu veux construire un bateau, ne commence pas par rassembler du bois, couper des planches et distribuer du travail, mais réveille au sein des hommes le désir de la mer grande et large."_

"_If you want to build a ship, don't begin by gathering wood, cutting boards, or distributing work. Rather, teach men to long for the vast and endless sea."_

_~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, __Citadelle

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**APOV**

I understand that it's not really feasible for Jasper to put his arm around me when we're walking, but just for tonight, I really freaking wish he could. It's not the harsh, syncopated sounds of our footsteps echoing off the garage floor, or the ominous shadows the dim lights cast against the concrete walls, or even the fact that I'm about to face what has recently been relegated to the position of my _second _greatest fear that have me craving his touch. Rather, it's the fact that tomorrow I'm going to have to watch him leave me again, and the pain, the sadness, and the uncertainty that accompany that impending separation constitute a fear that outweighs all the rest. I know that he's insisting we try this tonight for the dual purposes of distracting and helping me, but what I really want, what I really _need_ right now is just to be held.

'Course, even if it _were_ practical for Jasper to hold me, I doubt he would. For the past few days we've both been following a very specific set of unspoken rules. Any mention of his surgery or the three days we'll spend apart is forbidden, as is any sign or indication that I'm worried or anxious about either of those things. Despite the torrent of emotions raging within me, I work insanely hard to project a perpetual illusion of calm indifference. Jasper, too, has perfected the art of this illusion, and so recently, our time together has felt oddly numb and detached. Even now, while we're walking together so closely that I can smell him, hear his breathing, feel his warmth, it's like we're back in the hospital again, with a wall separating us, and that damn TV blaring in my ears.

I hear Jasper pull his keys from his pocket, and when I turn towards him, he pushes a button on his keychain and the taillights of a shiny blue convertible in front of us flash in response. I freeze where I am, and look from the car to Jasper incredulously.

"You drive a _Mercedes_?"

Jasper turns around and quirks his eyebrow at me, obviously surprised that I recognize the make of his car. Of course, his silent question goes unanswered since I can no more tell him how I know what a Mercedes is than I can explain to him how I knew that Alice was my name. Fortunately, he appears to understand this, 'cause his face quickly smoothes into its carefully constructed nonchalance, and his shoulders raise into a shrug.

"A graduation present from my parents," he explains. "If you like this, you should see the Bimmer they got Rose."

I have no idea what the heck a 'Bimmer' is, but the fact that Jasper's parents got both of their children new, _expensive _cars at the _same time_ causes my jaw to drop a little more. "They must be rich," I say before I have a chance to stop myself from making such a tactless comment.

Jasper sighs and rolls his eyes at me, clearly frustrated that, once again, I've managed to steer a conversation towards the issue of finances. "I don't suppose the term 'old Southern money' means anything to you?" he asks. I shake my head. "The Whitlocks have been around for a long time. You know—plantations, aristocracy—all that _Gone with the Wind_ shit. You tend to inherit a lot of… _stuff_ when your family's been around for hundreds of years."

"Like money," I say, reaching forward to touch the glossy finish on the car.

"Like money," Jasper confirms. "But also like stupid-ass names," he adds ruefully.

I frown and lean back slightly so that I can meet his eyes. "I _like_ the name Jasper."

"I prefer Jazz," he says, grinning wryly down at me in what has lately become a rare teasing gesture. "Now, are you ready to quit stalling and give this a try?"

I bite down on my bottom lip and stare warily at the passenger's side door. I'm sure Jasper knows as well as I do that this isn't exactly the kind of thing that gets easier depending on the amount of preparation involved: he's spent every evening since Christmas sitting at our kitchen table, and he still can't even carry on a conversation with me while I cook. Obviously though, it doesn't make sense for me to put this off either, since I'm pretty much as ready as I'll ever be. Even so, I don't really see why we have to do this _tonight_, when my nerves are already so frayed that just the _idea_ of getting in that stupid car makes my hair stand on end.

"C'mon, Alice," he says, walking around to open the door for me. "Just remember that this is how we're gonna find your mountains."

He could've said a thousand things to me—_don't be scared; I'll help you; I won't let anything hurt you; you'll be fine_—and none of them would've made me take one voluntary step towards that open door. But 'find your mountains?' _Damn. Sometimes I wish he didn't know me so well._

There's a disappointing absence of human interaction in the memory I had on Christmas. There are no conversations or faces. No parents. No Edward. But what my remembered vision lacks in answers about my family, it certainly makes up for in its beauty. I remember stepping out onto the porch of an enormous and strikingly windowed log cabin, leaning against the wooden railing, and watching the sun rise over a snow-frosted forest. I remember the way the branches of the trees drooped under the added burden of the snow, and the way my ears rang with a silence that's only possible in the dense and impenetrable air of a winter morning. And, most of all, I remember the way the snowy caps of the mountains in the distance disappeared seamlessly into the clouds, blurring the untraversable line between heaven and earth.

Somehow, without knowing where or even really _what_ it is that I've remembered, I feel fairly confident in my assessment that I once called that place home. Jasper seems to think that this knowledge should offer me comfort, and has promised to take me to every mountain in Pennsylvania until we find the one I'm looking for. But as with every other bit of information I've discovered about myself over these past few months, this breathtaking view from my mottled memory has simultaneously encouraged and confused me. After all, how is it possible that the events of my life have led me from a point at the top of the world to an underground garage in the middle of Philadelphia?

Jasper closes my door once I'm seated, and makes his way around to the other side of the car. I feel the familiar tension building in my muscles the moment the door clicks shut, and when Jasper slowly lowers himself into the seat next to me, my hands start shaking so badly that they continue to tremble even when I shove them underneath my legs. I'm sure Jasper notices the physical manifestations of my fear, but he doesn't acknowledge or comment on them in any way. Nor does he offer me any comforting words or inspirational platitudes, probably knowing as well as I do the uselessness of such measures in combating this particular type of fear. Instead, he shoots me a quick, almost apologetic look, and then turns the key in the ignition, causing the car's engine to rumble violently to life.

I don't last long; not two minutes after Jasper starts the car, he abruptly shuts it off again. When I look over at him, confused (though admittedly relived) that he hasn't even attempted to pull out of the parking space yet, he leans over and flips down the sun visor in front of me so that I can see my wan, colorless face in the mirror.

"You need to breathe," Jasper instructs, his voice sounding impossibly far away.

As soon as he says the word, my lungs expel their captive air while at the same time fighting to have the supply replenished, so that my breath comes out in shaky, stuttering gasps. For several minutes I struggle for control of myself, all the while aware that Jasper's just sitting there, watching my embarrassing panic attack. Again, it doesn't surprise me that he makes no move to comfort me. Perhaps it's even _fair_, since I've never held or reassured him during the nights he's sat at our kitchen table in obvious agony. In my defense, I know that he'd resent any acknowledgement of his weakness from me, and that's why I more or less leave him to work through his pain on his own. Obviously, he's decided that the same approach is appropriate for me.

Eventually, my rapid heart rate and uneven breathing return to more manageable tempos, and I let my head fall back against the seat in exhaustion. After a few more minutes of silence, Jasper finally shifts in his seat so that he's facing me.

"What is it for you?" he asks quietly.

I turn my head and furrow my eyebrows at him in confusion.

"What I mean is… Well, for me, it's the smell. Whenever I'm near fire, or even the _possibility_ of fire, I can smell burning. I---I smell _myself_ burning. And then I can taste it, and hear it, and _see it_. And then I remember the pain... Once I smell it, it's like I'm there again, reliving it. Every fucking time." Jasper wrinkles his nose a bit, and then mimics my earlier motion of leaning my head back against the seat. "That damn smell is why it's so hard for me," he says disgustedly. "So, what is it for you?"

"I'm not sure," I say, more than a little ashamed that I can't even pinpoint the source of my own irrational fears. "It's just something my body _does_. I can't control it. I guess it's kinda like I'm just waiting for another accident to happen—like I'm bracing for impact or something." I frown and turn my head so that I'm staring at the roof of the car. "I dunno. It's stupid."

The car goes silent again as we both contemplate my words. Suddenly, _everything_ seems incredibly stupid. The fact that I get so worked up over something I can't even remember, the fact that Jasper's making me go through this _tonight_ of all nights, the fact that my only motivation is a fleeting memory of a place where I _might have lived_, the fact that I've spent the last four days feelings decidedly disconnected to the only person on earth with whom I actually want to have a connection—it's all really, ridiculously, annoyingly—

"It's not stupid," Jasper disagrees flatly. Though his voice is still relatively monotone and emotionless, out of the corner of my eye I see him gripping the steering wheel with such intensity that his fingers are beginning to turn white. "You've dealt with more shit in the past year than most people deal with in their whole lives," he continues. "It's not easy—it may _never_ be easy. But the fact that you know how hard it'll be and you're sitting in this car anyway… Alice, that's anything but _stupid_."

I can't help but smile inwardly at the way Jasper's attempted encouragement ends up sounding more like anger than anything else. I'll take the veiled optimism though, since over the past few days I've found it hard to be optimistic about anything at all. In fact, I'll take the anger as well, 'cause for the first time in a long time, I find that I'm really freaking angry too. Jasper's right: everything we've been through, everything we're about to _go_ through is hard as hell. But because 'hard as hell' is all I've ever known, it's easy for me to forget that sometimes—to forget the fact that every day Jasper and I are waging a veritable war against all the crappy things that have happened to us. We're always fighting battles, even if we don't realize it. And even though we lose every time there's another surgery or pain or lost memory or fear, sometimes… sometimes we find a way to win.

Finding each other again: that was a victory. Each minute that passes without a reminder of the things that have happened to us: those constitute victories as well. Every time Jasper is able to make it through another hour of sitting at the kitchen table, or walk into a crowded store, or let me touch him without flinching away—heck, every time Jasper _smiles_ he wins a little. And even though I know that tomorrow's going to be almost unbearably painful, maybe spending all night locked in some melodramatic and tearful embrace isn't _really_ what I need right now. Maybe tonight, I just need to win a little too.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let the memory of my mountains replay in my mind. "All right," I say after a minute, "I think I'm ready to try again."

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It takes several tries and an inordinate amount of patience on both our parts, but after a few hours, I'm finally able to sit in the running vehicle without risking asphyxiation. By the time we take the elevator back up to our apartment it's almost midnight, and since Jasper has to be up early in order to get to the hospital by six, we quickly say 'goodnight' and head off to our respective rooms. The stress of being in the car effectively exhausts me to the point where I fall asleep the minute my head hits my pillow. But my rest is neither deep nor peaceful, and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom at 5:00 in the morning is more than enough to irreversibly rip me from my slumber.

"What are you doing up?" Jasper asks from across the hall when I open my door and lean against my doorframe, still rubbing the remnants of my restless sleep from my eyes.

"Not tired," I answer casually, still hyper-aware of our tacit agreement not to make our fast-approaching separation into a big deal.

Jasper glances at me sideways for a moment before turning his attention back to the mirror and bringing his razor up to his half-shaved face. "Uh huh; you don't look it at all."

I ignore his sarcasm, and focus instead on recalling everything I learned about skin grafts while I was in the hospital in an attempt to reassure myself that Jasper's surgery will go well. But no matter how hard I try to stay positive, there's always a little voice in the back of my mind screaming at me that things have _never_ been so easy for the two of us, and that it would be absolutely foolish of me to expect that we can make it through this time without some sort of major complication. All the fancy medical terms in the world can't speak louder than that undeniable pattern around which fate has recently molded our lives.

"Actually, I'm glad you're awake," Jasper says as he finishes shaving and hangs the towel he's been using back up on the rack. "I have something for you."

I follow him wordlessly into his bedroom, where he crosses over to his desk and pulls something out of one of the drawers. "Here," he says, tossing me a little black cell phone which I catch easily in my hands. I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me before I can say a word. "_Before_ you freak out: that's the cheapest, crappiest one I could find. I didn't even put money on it—you'll have to do that yourself if you wanna use it. But I put my number and the hospital's number and your social worker's number in there so that you'll have someone to call if you need anything. Do you remember how to use it?"

Jasper's let me borrow his cell phone a few times to make calls, so I'm fairly comfortable with finding and navigating the address book at this point. I nod and thank him as I flip the phone open and start scrolling through the entries. I have to suppress a laugh when I realize that in addition to the three numbers he's already listed, he also added the landlord for his building and the Philadelphia police and fire departments.

_What kind of trouble does he really think I'm going to get into over the next three days?_

"So… does this mean we can talk while you're gone?" I ask hopefully as I fold the phone shut and slip it into the pocket of my sweatpants.

I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly in amusement before his face smoothes back into its perpetual state of indifference. "Sure, if you want. I've got your number, too. I can give you a call later on so long as you put money on your phone."

Unlike Jasper, I make absolutely no effort to hide my smile as I assure him that I'll stop by a convenience store on my way to work. _If you want_…. What a stupid thing to say.

"Can you do me a favor?" Jasper asks as he begins pulling various items of clothing from his dresser and setting them on his bed. "There's a box in the bottom of my closet. Could you pull it out and bring it over here? Be careful," he cautions as I open the closet door, "it's heavy."

'Heavy' is actually an understatement: the thing is so freaking huge that I honestly have no idea how Jasper got it in here in the first place. In the end, I settle for dragging and pushing it across the floor until it finally comes to a rest next to Jasper's bed.

"What do you have in here, bricks?" I quip, sinking cross-legged to the floor.

"Close," Jasper says, smiling slightly as he removes a pair of scissors from his desk and sits down on the edge of the bed. He leans forward and begins slicing through the tape that holds the box together. The position is clearly awkward for him, so after a minute I take the scissors from his hand and pick up where he left off. When the flaps finally fall open to reveal the box's contents, my breath catches sickeningly in my throat.

"Your books," I whisper as I stare at the familiar but long-forgotten reminders of our time in the hospital.

"Yeah," Jasper says, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably, "You know, in case I get bored."

I swallow deeply, and raise my eyes to meet his, vaguely aware that my carefully-composed mask is quickly crumbling. "I thought you threw these out."

Jasper's forehead creases in confusion as he notices the sudden change in my tone. "Um… no," he says cautiously. "I, uh… I couldn't—I guess I just never got around to opening them."

Some part of my mind registers that he's hiding something from me, but I'm so full of other emotions at this point that there's not enough space left in me to care. Rather, the only thing I can concentrate on as I slowly begin pulling the books from the box is how I felt the last time I held them. I was grieved, terrified, confused—not so very different from the way I've felt for these past few days. I couldn't tell him then how much he meant to me; all this time and he never knew. And now here he is, about to leave me again, and he still has no idea how much it pains me to have to let him go.

"What is it?" Jasper asks, as my hands finally find the one book in the box that bulges awkwardly at the spine. "Alice, tell me what's wrong."

When I fail to respond, Jasper reaches down and gently pries the book from my fingers. I hear the soft clinking of my bracelet as he removes it from the pages, and after a few minutes, I lift my eyes to gauge his reaction. I'm not sure exactly what I expect to see—numbness or indifference maybe, confusion, possibly frustration—certainly a continuation of the same relatively emotionless state that he's assumed for the past several days. But when he raises his head, all of that's gone. His lips are parted slightly, his brow is tightly knotted, and his eyes are full of perhaps the most beautiful sadness that I've ever seen.

_Now_ he knows.

"Come here," he says quietly, laying the bracelet down on the bed and then holding his hand out to me. I grab it and pull myself up off the floor and onto the bed. He doesn't even give me a chance to get seated before he pulls me so tightly against him that I'm all but sitting in his lap. For the first time since I've known him, I don't even bother to wonder if I'm hurting him when I wrap my arms around his chest in response. I want this; I _need_ this. From the way he's holding me now, it's pretty clear that he does too.

"I'm gonna miss you so damn much," Jasper murmurs, laying his cheek on my head and rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

I press my face further into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. "I'll miss you, too," I say, not trusting myself to speak any louder than a whisper; I only have a limited time left with him, and if I can help it, I'm not going to spend it crying. His arm tightens around me, and seconds later he sighs into my hair.

"It's going to be okay," he insists. "It's only a few days. Everything's going to be fine."

Though I can obviously hear his words, I know that they're not really meant for me. Nor, even, has he spoken them in an attempt to comfort himself. Rather, the words are an amalgamation of a threat, an accusation, a demand, and a prayer, and are intended for whatever divine or omnipotent beings might be listening. I know because I've uttered a variation on this same invocation hundreds of times, starting the first night I heard Jasper in the hospital.

_We've had enough. We've been through enough; we've suffered enough. Please, just let us have some peace._

I'm sure we spend several minutes sitting together like that, but it seems like only seconds later that I feel Jasper's phone vibrate in his pocket. He lets it go to voicemail the first time, but when it starts ringing again, he curses under his breath and then disentangles us so that he can answer. The conversation is brief and monosyllabic, but the hardened tone in his voice tells me everything I need to know.

"I need to go," Jasper says, as he flips his phone shut and returns it to his pocket, confirming my assumption that his taxi is waiting downstairs. I nod and begin helping him stuff the clothes he's pulled out into a duffel bag. When his eyes fall on my bracelet, he picks it up and hands it to me repentantly, like he's apologizing for not finding it before. I lay it back between the pages of his book, and then place them both into the bag with his clothes.

"Keep it," I say, smiling half-heartedly at him as I close the bag and pick it up off the bed. "Maybe it'll be lucky."

Jasper returns the smile with an equal degree of enthusiasm, and then follows me out to the living room and begins shrugging into his coat. Before zipping it up, he ducks his head down so that I can wrap his scarf around his neck. When my hands linger a little too long on his chest, he wraps his arm loosely around me and presses his forehead against mine.

"Lock this fucking door _every time_ you leave the apartment, and _every time_ you come home," Jasper says, his voice infused with an odd combination of seriousness and mockery.

I roll my eyes and shake my head slightly against his. "I will. And _you_ tell your nurses to tape that stupid button to your bed."

I hear Jasper snort once before giving me one last squeeze and dropping his arm. "I'll call you later," he says, stepping out into the hallway. I nod and hand him his bag over the threshold. For a moment, Jasper just stands there, pursing his lips like he has something else that he wants to say. In the end though, he just smiles tightly, turns, and begins walking towards the elevator without another word.

There's no chance I'll be able to handle watching him walk away, so I quickly push the door shut and click the deadbolt deliberately into place before I do something stupid like run after him, attach myself to his legs, and beg him not to leave. I do, however, walk out onto the balcony to try and catch one more glimpse of him, but the awning over the front door of our building obscures the cab from sight. The closest I get to seeing Jasper again is when I see our building reflected in the tinted windows of the taxi as it pulls out into the rush-hour traffic on the busy Philadelphia street.

And that's when the tears finally begin to fall.

----------

It takes me about an hour to cry myself out, which leaves me with precious little time to get cleaned up and ready for work. I shower quickly and apply several layers of concealer to my face in an effort to hide the puffy bags under my eyes. Despite attempts to make myself look presentable though, the cashier at CVS still asks me if I've just gotten off the night shift while he's ringing up my phone card. I fight the urge to glare at him openly, and instead settle on adding a Red Bull to my purchase in the hopes that by the time I get to work, I'll look a little more like myself.

The day passes uneventfully for the most part. I complete all my tasks at work with my usual diligence, and am even able to fulfill the vow I made to myself at the beginning of December by not allowing Jasper's absence to have a negative affect on my relationships with others. I talk and laugh and smile throughout the day, and apart from that one discourteous cashier, no one else makes so much as a passing comment about the way I look or act. On the surface at least, everything is fine.

But, like my concealer, which gradually wears away as the day goes on, my façade of normalcy gets more and more difficult to maintain with each passing hour. I very nearly lose it when I step outside at 5:00 and see the empty space against the wall where Jasper usually waits for me, and it's only by the grace of the self-control gods I'm able to hold it together long enough to make it back to the apartment.

The _empty_ apartment.

I leave all semblance of self-control at the door.

Eventually I get around to showering and eating dinner, and when all my dishes are put away, I make my way into Jasper's room to clean up the mess I left on the floor in the morning. For a minute, I consider throwing all the books back into the box and stowing them away in the closet again, but then I realize that whatever aversion he had to his books is obviously gone now, and so I pull them all out and place them neatly on the empty bookshelf in the corner of his room. When I'm done, I carefully break down the cardboard box and stick it out in the hallway so that I remember to take it down to the dumpster in the morning. I double-check the door to make sure it's locked, and then head back to my room and settle into my bed to wait for Jasper's call.

Nearly four long hours later, the phone finally rings. I'm such a nervous wreck by that point that I almost drop the phone in my attempt to answer it. Finally though, I manage to exert enough control to flip it open and stutter "hello" into the speaker.

There's no response.

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen to make sure that it did indeed _ring_, and that I'm not just imagining things. I'm more than a little confused when I see a number I don't recognize flashing on the caller ID screen. My heart beats wildly and erratically in my chest as several terrifying scenarios flit through my mind at once. _What if it's the hospital calling to tell me that something's gone wrong? What if he's hurt? What if he's in pain? What if he's—_

"_Hello_?" I say again, my panicked voice sounding unnaturally high and screechy.

"Shit, kid… I'm 'ere. Stop shouting."

His words are slurred and almost indecipherable; his voice is tired and scratchy. But never, in my entire freaking life, have I been so glad to hear that stupid, annoying nickname. I lean back against my headboard and take a deep, calming breath in an effort to control my voice.

"Jasper?"

"Mmmm," he mumbles, "y'alright?"

"I'm _fine_," I say, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head at the absurdity of his question. "How're _you_?"

"Fine," he says hoarsely, before pausing to clear his throat, "jus' like I toldya I would be. Bit tired and… couldn't find m'fuckin' phone."

I know it's wrong, but I can't help but laugh a little when Jasper explains the reason why I didn't recognize this number. He must be using the phone in his room, which, to be fair, illustrates a remarkable amount of reasoning on his part considering the fact that he can barely form a coherent sentence.

"But you're sure you're okay, though?" I press, imagining him rolling his eyes at me for my concern. "Have you talked to your doctors? How do you feel?"

It takes Jasper significantly longer to answer this time, and when he finally does, his words are even more jumbled than before. As best I can tell, he offers me some bizarre combination of the phrases, _it went well_, _I hate this fucking hospital_, and _my room smells like vanilla,_ before his voice trails off and his deep and even breathing becomes the only sound I can hear.

I know that the appropriate thing to do—the _sane_ thing to do—is to end the call. But after the kind of day that I've just had, I find that I'm not quite ready to break the only connection between the two of us. Instead, I sink down under my covers and lay the open phone next to me on my pillow, determined to spend a few more minutes immersed in the comfort of his simulated presence.

I fell asleep to the sound of his breathing many times when we were in the hospital, so it doesn't surprise me when my body responds to that same sound now as a child would respond to a lullaby: my muscles relax, my own breathing slows, and my eyes begin to flutter shut. I cling to consciousness for as long as I can, but when my control eventually starts to slip, I whisper 'goodnight' and close the phone. Minutes later, I follow Jasper into sleep.

*******

**JPOV**

I don't know at exactly what point the knocked-the-fuck-outness of anesthesia becomes the unconsciousness of sleep, but when it does, I dream of Alice.

At first, my dreams are pleasant, and more like memories than anything else: Alice walking out the door of the Sheraton, Alice getting all excited while opening Christmas presents, Alice standing out on the balcony in my coat, looking ten degrees of adorable as snow falls in her ruffled hair. But the subconscious mind has a strange way of conflating the things you consciously fight to keep separate, and so at some point, I begin dreaming about Alice in pain. Over and over again, I see her curled up in a little ball; her face pale as death, her eyes wide with fear. And the worst part is, that even though I can't locate the source of her pain—there are no visible wounds and she either can't or won't tell me what's wrong—I somehow understand that it's my fault. I know that if I could just open my eyes—just wake up—she'd be okay. But every time I try, some unseen and unrelenting force pulls me back into the nightmare. And so for hours, we suffer.

That goddamn heart rate monitor is what finally accomplishes my waking in the end. I know that the audible proof that I'm alive should be comforting, but honestly, it just annoys the hell out of me—even, apparently, in my dreams. Not long after my ears register the mechanical beeping, the rest of my senses start working again as well. My eyes instinctively squeeze shut against the harsh fluorescent lights, my stomach churns as I inhale the acrid and pungent smells that surround me, I swallow involuntarily in an attempt to ease the terrible desiccation of my throat, and every time my heart beats the entire left side of my body throbs with pain. But even though I'm effectively transitioning from one nightmare to another, I'm relieved to find that the second is slightly more bearable than the first.

Eventually my eyes adjust to the light enough that I can open them, and as soon as I do, I _carefully_ locate my morphine button with my right hand. The last two times I had surgery, there was such a constant stream of drugs coursing through my system that it took loads of that shit to make any noticeable difference in how I felt. But I haven't had anything stronger than Tylenol for weeks now, and so I'm pretty sure that my body'll react to the morphine the way a ninety-pound girl reacts to liquor—two shots, and I'll be fucking _done_. And since I'm in no hurry to return to the crap from which I've just woken up, I push the button just once, and wait for the drugs to take effect.

When I begin to feel the familiar weightlessness in my limbs, I glance down at my arm to examine the effects of the surgery. My doctors first grafted my left hand during the week I spent sedated directly after the fire. That was just a temporary fix though, meant to help my body stave off infection and facilitate the healing process. This most recent surgery was far more complicated. I'm still not sure I understand all of what they did to me, but I know it involved rerouting tendons and muscles in an attempt to restore both feeling and function to my hand, as well as the application of a 'more cosmetically appealing graft.' The donor site—a now heavily bandaged three-inch strip along my left triceps—is the source of probably 95% of my current pain. As for the hand itself, I still can't feel a damn thing. Furthermore, even though I can't see through the thick bandages surrounding my hand and wrist, I know that no amount of grafting or plastic surgery will _ever_ make that part of my body look anywhere _close_ to normal. Those doctors worked on me for hours, and the only thing they left me with is another scar that I have to try and hide.

I frown and push the switch on my bed that raises me into a sitting position. I _hate_ that I know where that switch is without even having to look. In fact, I fucking hate everything _about_ how familiar this all seems to me. I hate that I recognize the walls and the television and the grey-green shades on the windows. I hate that I know what time meals are served and what time the doctors make their rounds. I hate that my fingers know where to find the remote control and the light switch and the call button and the pho—

My mental tirade is cut abruptly short when the very thing I'm professing my undying hatred for falls off my pillow and squarely into my lap. For several minutes, I just stare at the cream-colored receiver, trying to figure out how the hell it got on my bed. My skin starts crawling and my heart dips into my stomach when I finally remember the promise I made to call Alice after I woke up from surgery.

_No way,_ I think to myself as I replace the receiver in its cradle, _there's no way I could possibly have been so stupid._

One press of the 'redial' button, seven rings, and an automated voicemail later, I learn that I was, indeed, that fucking stupid. God alone knows at what point my tripped-out mind decided that it would be a good idea to call Alice, and unfortunately, God and _Alice_ alone know what the hell I might've said. Considering the dreams I had, the possibilities are pretty fucking terrifying, and run the gamut from scary-ass confessions that I pay entirely too much attention to her to sobs of agony. My eyes quickly flick to the clock above my door at the same time that I try to recall Alice's work schedule for this week.

_Tuesday was… eight to five. Great. Seven damn hours until I get to figure out how big of a fool I made of myself. Maybe I could use another dose of morphine after all…_

While I'm still weighing the pros and cons of drugging myself into oblivion, the door to my room opens and one of the members of my surgical team enters. She immediately pulls my chart from the bin at the end of my bed, and begins asking me the same series of banal questions that I get asked every single time I wake up in this stupid hospital.

"How are we feeling today, Mr. Whitlock?"

I want to bite back with some smartass remark about how _we_ aren't feeling _anything_, but as soon I open my mouth, I realize that speaking is going to be far more difficult than I'd thought. My throat has, quite literally, been on fire before, so I know that what I'm feeling right now isn't exactly the same thing. Still, it's pretty damn close. Every breath feels like it's filled with microscopic shards of glass, and my spit could be made of sand for all the good swallowing does me. In the end, the only word I'm able to croak out is a very raspy "thirsty."

"I'll have a nurse bring you some ice chips," she says brightly as she begins checking the bandages on my arm.

_Ice chips? For the love of god, woman, get me a fucking ­­­hose_.

"How about your pain?" she continues, apparently oblivious to the daggers I'm glaring into her forehead. "Is it manageable?"

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her, and instead just nod my head in the hopes that my compliance will expedite both her departure and the imminent quenching of my thirst. Fortunately, after making a few notes on her chart, she returns it to its bin and smiles up at me from the foot of my bed.

"Everything looks very good," she concludes smugly. "Someone'll be back to check on you in a few hours. In the meantime, keep your arm elevated and try to get some rest."

I nod and return her smile as best I can, figuring that she probably deserves this little self-congratulatory moment. After all, this is _by far_ the easiest morning-after-surgery I've yet experienced, even despite the nightmares and the thirst and my unyielding conviction that the surgery itself was pointless.

Appeased by my apparent gratitude, the doctor finally leaves the room, and a few minutes later a nurse enters carrying a Styrofoam cup full of ice. Not surprisingly, those stupid-ass chips take _forever_ to have any noticeable effect. My thirst never _does _disappear entirely, but the pain in my throat eventually subsides to the point where I'm able to ask the nurse if I'm allowed to change into the clothes I brought from home. Fifteen shaky, dizzy, painful minutes later, I sink back against my pillows, comfortably dressed in my own shirt, boxers, sweatpants, and _socks._ Seven months of lying in bed barefoot will really make you appreciate a good fucking pair of socks.

I let my eyes wander as my body recovers from the exertion of getting dressed, and eventually my gaze comes to rest on the almost laughably innocent-looking book that's sitting on my bedside table. I shake my head in frustration as I pick it up and flip it open to the pages that contain both Alice's bracelet and the picture of Emmett and Rosalie. And there they are: all the mistakes I've made, everything I've been both purposefully and inadvertently blind to, shoved in-between the pages of a book about death. I doubt whether there's ever been a more significance-laden grouping of objects in the entire damn history of symbolism.

I force myself to look at the picture first. It was taken the day that the three of us went fishing on Lake Palestine, about a week or so before Em and I were meant to go back to school. I'd originally kept the picture 'cause it was the last unreservedly happy memory I shared with either of them—the last time I could say for certain that I'd had a sister or a best friend. Looking at it now though, I can't help but wonder if they knew what was about to happen to us. There's something in the way that Emmett's hand is resting protectively on Rose's hip, and in the way that Rose's eyes are smiling back at the camera that suggest a shared secret, a surreptitious maturity that, in the clarity of hindsight, I realize I'd never seen in either of them before that moment. Whether or not their instincts had told them by then what the doctors took another week to confirm is, I suppose, a moot point. What really matters is that the two of them grew up that summer, and somehow, I got left behind.

I place the picture back in the book, and gently pick the bracelet up off the bed. Obviously, I knew that it existed—I was listening through the wall the day the policeman brought it to her in the hospital, and I heard it jingling around her wrist on the nights when she used to come and sit in my room. It hadn't escaped my notice that she'd stopped wearing it, but the fact that she never alluded to it told me that her reasons for taking it off had been private, and so I never brought it up. But now, after all this time, I come to find out that she didn't lose it, or stow it away in a box, or put it in her wallet for safe keeping. _ She gave it to me. _That irreplaceable and unfathomably large piece of herself, she just _gave_ it to me—because she knew the morning she left the hospital what my dumb-ass mind figured out roughly ten hours too late: that at some point during the nights we spent sitting side-by-side in the dark, _happiness_ had become _joy_, _wanting_ had become _needing_, and _liking_ had become…

I suppose that for any other couple, in any other circumstance, that kind of mutual desire might signify an emotion such as love. In fact, after feeling the urgency with which she clung to me yesterday morning, I'm pretty damn sure that's what she believes it to be. But even though the selfish bastard in me is thrilled that the poor girl thinks she loves me, the _rational_ bastard in me keeps reminding me that she doesn't—she _can't_—because despite the fact that she knows me better than anyone else, she's never seen my scars.

I've wanted to show her. I swear to God, ever since Christmas, when I realized that I couldn't continue believing she simply thought of me as a friend, I've been trying to show her what I am. But every time I think I'm ready, she'll put her hand on my thigh or wrap her arm around my waist or rest her head on my chest, and I'll lose my fucking nerve. Because even if the illusion of love isn't quite as good as love itself, it's still better than the alternative. How could she ever hold me again once she sees the things I hide beneath my clothes? And how, having now been held by her, could I ever live without her touch? She couldn't. I couldn't.

And so we go on pretending.

----------

The day passes in a monotonous repetition of doctors' visits, sleep, and ice. Fortunately, neither my waking nor sleeping nightmares return, and for all intents and purposes, the day passes peacefully. But as 5:00 approaches, my stomach begins rolling anxiously and despite my morphine-induced lethargy, I find it increasingly hard to sit still. All that nervous energy becomes useful when, at twenty to five, I realize that I left my phone in the pocket of the jeans I wore to the hospital, which are hanging up in the bathroom. It takes me forever to loosen the fuck up and walk over there, so by the time I sink exhaustedly back into bed, it's already ten past. I wait a few minutes to give Alice time to make it home, and then dial her number and pray for the umpteenth time that she had her phone on silent last night when I called.

Despite all my nerves, I can't help but smile when she answers on the first ring.

"Hey kid," I say, my smile quickly turning into a wince as my voice grates against my throat. "How's it goin'?"

I hear the sound of chaffing leather in the background, and imagine Alice sitting on our couch and folding her legs up underneath her chin. "I'm fine," she answers with a tad too much sarcasm for my liking. "How're _you_ feeling? You certainly _sound_ better than you did last night."

I clench my jaw shut as a chorus of profanity echoes in my mind. Our situations are so dissimilar as to be virtually incomparable, but for one brief moment I suddenly have a new appreciation for the struggle Alice must go through every single day. The dread, the humiliation, and the confusion that accompany any sort of memory loss… it's all pretty fucking miserable.

"I'm sorry if I, uh… said anything stupid," I finally mumble. "I—I don't remember calling you at all."

"Don't worry Jazz," Alice says brightly, managing to elicit a small smile from me with her casual use of my cool-as-fuck new nickname. "You _did_ say something about your room smelling weird, but other than that, you pretty much just told me you were okay and then fell asleep." She pauses for a moment before adding, "You—you _are_ okay, aren't you?"

"Of course," I say, relaxing infinitesimally at her assurance that I didn't make a total ass of myself, "everything's fine. Even my doctors say so," I add, knowing that Alice will never be satisfied until she gets a second opinion from a medical professional. "They musta been in here twenty times today, and each time they've told me that everything looks good."

I roll my eyes when I hear Alice breathe a sigh of relief. If it were anyone else, I'd definitely find her constant worrying annoying as all hell, but somehow, she even finds a way to make irrational anxiety seem endearing.

"Guess what?" she asks, her tone suddenly shifting concern to reserved excitement. "At work today, I found out that they're looking to hire some new front desk receptionists," she continues without even waiting for my response. "My boss was the one who told me actually—she said she thinks I'd be good for the job."

I fight the urge to answer immediately and emphatically, remembering the hurt I'd seen in her eyes the night I'd stupidly insulted her… profession. "Is that something you think you'd wanna do?" I ask, managing to keep an even tone even though my heart is doing joyous flips at the prospect of throwing every single one of those goddamn maid uniforms in the fucking dumpster.

"I think so," Alice says, her voice still reserved. "I mean, it's better pay, and better hours, and I'd get to work with customers, which would be nice. But…"

"But _what_?" I ask, nearly yelling at her for her hesitation.

Alice sighs heavily into the phone. "Well…" she continues dejectedly, "I have to fill out an application. I looked at one today, and there are a bunch of questions on there that I can't answer."

It makes me cringe to realize that something as normal and mundane as filling out a job application seems like such an insurmountable obstacle for her—especially when I consider that someone, _somewhere_, must know the answers to every single one of those fucking questions. But there's no way that the uncertainty of her past should prevent her from having a future, and so if she wants this job, then she's damn well gonna get it.

"Alice," I say gently, "if your boss told you you'd be good for the job, I doubt very much that it matters what you put on your application. Plus, apart from your name and your address, the rest of those questions are pretty much bullshit anyways. If you wanna apply for the job, get an application, and I'll help you find a way to fill it out when I get home."

"Really?" she asks, an excited smile audibly coloring the tone of her voice.

I let my head fall back against my pillows and smile along with her. "Absolutely."

I'm about to ask her to tell me more about the position when I happen to glance up and see one of my doctors making his way down the hall and towards my room. _For the love of all that's holy… how many times do I really need to hear that I'm fine in one day?_

"Hey, kid," I say, unable to stop anger from seeping into my words, "my doctor's here. _Again_. I'll call you back in a bit, okay?"

"No, that's all right," Alice says quickly, "you should probably rest anyway."

_Well, I should've known __that__ was coming. One reference to doctors, and she's right back in overprotective-concerned-worry-mode._

I sigh and try to remember Alice's schedule for the remainder of the week. My mood brightens considerably when I remember that tomorrow is New Year's Eve. "You're off tomorrow, right?" I ask hopefully, "I'll call you in the morning when I—"

"Actually, I switched with someone so that I could have Thursday off instead. I'm working the late shift tomorrow, so I won't be home until around 10:15."

"That's pretty fucking late," I grumble, aware but not caring that I sound like a two-year-old about to throw a tantrum. However, as pissed as I am that I have to wait for so long to talk to her again, it's hard to stay mad when I realize that she switched her day off so she could be home when I get discharged from the hospital. So, I grudgingly man up enough to erase the traces of disappointment from my voice, and sincerely thank her for switching her schedule around for me.

"Just do me a favor," I say sternly as my doctor opens the door to my room. "Ask one of your co-workers to walk you home when you get off. It's too late for you to be walking around alone."

Alice agrees, even though I know full well that she's just as bad at asking for favors as I am. We both say goodnight, and by the time I've ended the call and placed my phone back on the bedside table, my doctor is already halfway through his routine.

"Everything looks great," he predictably says a few minutes later. "If things still look alright in the morning, I think we'll be able to discharge you tomorrow."

My eyes, which have been focused on the clock as I try to figure out how many hours there are between now and 10:30 tomorrow evening, quickly snap up to my doctor's face. "B-but…" I stammer, "I-I'm not supposed to go home 'till Thursday."

The doctor smirks at me amusedly and folds his arms across his chest. "By all means, you can stay until Thursday if you want. But your graft is starting to take and there aren't any signs of infection, so really, Mr. Whitlock, there's no reason to hold you here any longer."

Fortuitous shit like this _never_ happens to me, so I stare at him incredulously for a moment, waiting for the punch line. When it doesn't come, I manage to stutter out a 'thank you,' wincing at the way the combination of surprise and happiness sounds oddly like a speech impediment from my lips.

"Don't thank me yet," the doctor cautions, though his mouth remains twisted into a smile. "We'll have to see how things look in the morning. But considering the progress we've seen today, I'd say there's a very good chance you'll be… home," he says, glancing pointedly at my cell phone, "by tomorrow afternoon."

Normally that kind of insinuation would piss the shit outta me, but right now, that man could literally rub salt in my wounds, and I'd probably just end up thanking him again.

I briefly consider calling Alice back once my doctor leaves, but instantly decide against it when I remember that my plans are still somewhat up in the air. Plus, if I _do_ end up getting discharged while she's at work, I'll be able to clean myself up before I see her, which, considering the way I currently smell, will be an invaluable luxury.

I press the button that lowers my bed so it's parallel to the floor, and then dim the lights and shut my eyes. For the first time in my life, I'm really fucking grateful for the amount of energy surgery drains from the body. With any luck, the combination of exhaustion and painkillers will knock me out quickly and allow me to sleep through the night. And when I wake up….

… when I wake up, I'm going _home._

----------

I've been riding in cars all my life, but none of them has ever looked or felt or _smelled_ as good as the smoky, dirt-encrusted Yellow Cab that picks me up from the hospital at 3:00 in the afternoon. The ride home is, admittedly, a bit rough since every fucking bump and pothole we drive over jolts the left side of my body uncomfortably, even despite the sling that's keeping my arm flush against my chest. The pain doesn't really subside any after I pay the cabbie and walk into my building, but somewhere between the street and my front door, I lose the ability to care. Without my realizing, this stupid-ass apartment in the middle of Philadelphia has somehow become my goddamn sanctuary.

My attempt at a shower is neither graceful nor pleasant, but it's all worth it when I finally emerge from the bathroom, no longer reeking of hospital grime. I try to eat something after my shower, but the drugs the doctors gave me for the pain have left me woozy and nauseous, so I eventually just settle for another cup of fucking ice chips. Sleep comes easily for me during the afternoon, and when my alarm goes off at 9:30 I wake feeling marginally better—though the nervous anticipation of seeing Alice again continues to make the idea of food repulsive to me.

_Fuck it_, I think as I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt down to cover my bandaged left hand, _I'll have all day tomorrow to eat._

I'd decided against picking Alice up from work when I realized how difficult it was to take a simple shower earlier in the afternoon. Instead, I just sit by the window in my room and watch the street for any sign of her. Finally, I recognize her unmistakably tiny figure walking _alone_ along the dimly-lit sidewalk, and shake my head in relief and frustration as I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. I watch as she pulls her cell out of her pocket, and holds it up to her ear.

"I thought I told you to find someone to walk you home," I growl before she even has a chance to say 'hello,' trying but failing to keep from smiling as I scold her.

I see Alice duck her head a little, before she quickly begins rattling off an explanation. "I _tried_, Jasper. Katie was gonna walk me home, but then her boyfriend showed up and she got a ride with him and they offered me one too but I coul…." she trails off as she stops where she's standing and begins looking wildly around her. "_Hey_," she finally says, "how'd you know I'm alone? Where… where _are_ you?"

She's standing almost directly under my window, so instead of answering her, I just shut my phone and rap my knuckles loudly against the glass. Her head snaps up towards my room, and for a minute, she just stands there with her phone pressed tightly against her ear. Then, without warning, she drops her hand and begins running towards the entrance to our building far faster than I've ever seen her move. Even so, it isn't nearly fucking fast enough, and so instead of waiting patiently in my room like I'd planned, I walk out into the hall and meet her just as she's stepping out of the elevator doors.

For one fleeting moment, worry flashes in her eyes as she studies the sling around my neck, and whatever physical changes my face has surely undergone over the past two days. I can't really blame her—I feel my own eyebrows furrow in concern when I notice the unnatural paleness of her skin and the poorly-concealed circles under her eyes. But, as has been the case ever since the night she moved in with me, everything except for Alice disappears the instant she wraps her little arms around my waist. The pain, the worry, the longing—all of them excised completely by the strength of our embrace.

"How long have you been here?" Alice eventually asks, ducking out from beneath my arm to meet my eyes. I miss the loss of contact immediately, but use this opportunity to take her hand and lead her back into the apartment. After all, you can only hug someone in a public hallway for so long before your neighbors begin to question your sanity.

"A couple hours," I say, as I kick the door shut behind us. And, since I have a pretty good guess about what she'll ask next, I add, "They let me go a day early 'cause everything was fine."

Alice closes her eyes and smiles as she processes my explanation. I have no doubt I'll have to repeat that kind of reassurance countless times over the next few days, but I really can't blame her for needing to hear it. If someone had told me two days ago that by tonight, I'd be back in our apartment, holding her and watching her smile at me, I'd've laughed in their fucking face.

I help her off with her coat, and when I turn back around from hanging it up on the rack, Alice is already sinking lazily onto the couch. I join her gladly, but before I can put my arm around her again, she turns to face me her eyes narrowed in an unexpected but familiar glare.

"That really wasn't fair," she huffs, folding her arms across her chest. "You should have_ told_ me you were coming home."

I smile sheepishly and relax my head against the back of the couch, knowing that this kind of petulance won't last very long. "I didn't actually know for sure until you'd already left for work. 'Sides," I add, glancing at her teasingly out of the corner of my eye, "this was way more fun."

"Maybe for you," she grumbles, scowling down at the floor. Seconds later, I feel her head drop down to rest on my shoulder. "I've been worrying about you all day, you idiot," she sighs. "Don't do that again."

The genuine hurt in her voice instantly wipes all traces of that smartass grin off my face. I'd wanted to _surprise_ her, not upset her. But now that I see that I've unwittingly done both, I know that the surprise wasn't worth it after all.

"I won't," I assure her remorsefully, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and cradling her against my chest. And then, for some unfathomable reason that I may never understand, I lean down and punctuate my promise by planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

I jerk my head up quickly as I belatedly realize the fucking stupid thing I've just done. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and hope and beg and pray that she didn't notice. After a minute, I feel Alice shift against me, and even though I know she's looking at me, I can't bring myself to open my eyes.

Then, I feel it: the sickly sweet, coolly burning touch of her lips against mine.

I can't think; I can't even fucking _breathe._ All I can do is hold her as we precariously straddle the divide between the parody of love and love itself, and wait to see which side we'll land on when we fall.

* * *

**.... Sorry?**

**Jasper's car and Alice's mountains are up on my profile. Don't forget about the Twilighted forums!  
**


	16. Waging War

****WARNING**** This chapter deals with suicide, depression, and crises of faith, and gives detailed descriptions of wounds and physical deformities. Please do not continue reading if any of the above themes bother or offend you.

**A Note on the Format of the JPOV:** Jasper's section is told non-linearly. Everything that is in italics is a flashback, though the specific times and dates of the flashbacks are varied. I recommend reading the JPOV twice for this reason. This is a one-time thing. This story will resume "normal" style/formatting in subsequent chapters.

* * *

**A/N:** No more excuses—I write slowly. Very sorry for the delay.

Twila Reaux has put about as much work into this chapter as I. She deserves more thanks than I can give her alone, so if you like this chapter, you should really thank Twila by sending her a nice note or…

Reading her stuff. Actually, I have a TON of fics to promote this time around, so if you get bored waiting for my updates, you should seriously consider checking out the following:

**Requiem** by **Twila Reaux**. Ever wonder what dying might've felt like for one of Jasper's human victims? This is such a story, from the victim's pov. O/S. http://www. fanfiction. net/s/5054639/1/Requiem

**My Little Black Ache** by **istandcorrected**. I am NOT a Bella fan, but this AH BxE story is fanfreakingtastic, and isc's Bella is probably the best I've ever read. PLUS, she has a Magicsper whom I adore. http://www. fanfiction. net/s/5005811/1/My_Little_Black_Ache

**If Love Could Light a Candle** by **Pastiche Pen**. This fic probably needs no introduction, but I'll give one anyway. Roughly half of each chapter is a flashback to Edward's "teenage rebellion" years, and half of the story is told in the present, with Edward as Bella's psychologist. It's in-canon characters in slightly OOC situations. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that Pastiche also writes one heck of a Jasper. http://www. fanfiction. net/s/5022358/1/If_Love_Could_Light_a_Candle

**Dueling Banjos** by **Cat of Kilkenny**. I have a secret, and her name is Leah. I love Leah almost as much as I love Jasper, and this fic is a Leah/Jasper friendship fic (a la "Cowboys and Indians") which pretty much hits the nail on the head as far as their respective pasts and insecurities are concerned. It's a beautiful read. http://www. fanfiction. net/s/4778176/1/Dueling_Banjos

Alright, I'm done with recs. There will be a few notes at the end of this chapter as well, since I borrowed heavily from several authors to get this chapter written.

As always, Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: _Waging War_

"_Humans are the only animal that blushes, laughs, has religion, wages war, and kisses with lips. So in a way, the more you kiss with lips, the more human you are. And the more you wage war."  
~Jonathan Safran Foer, __Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

* * *

_

**APOV**

_and then i feel his stubble like static and  
how can my heart beat so fast  
and so loud and  
so hard without hurting  
and that taste is like  
nothing ive ever  
but  
i never thought he would or i would  
and so i dont know if im  
doing it right and what  
if i should open my  
but hes  
so damn warm like  
eyes shut against the sunlight  
heat is all i see and  
feel and know and  
my god i could  
burn like this forever  
but hes not  
kissing  
me_

back.

My eyes flutter open. I pull away from his face. Feeling drains from my body. My thoughts go silent.

Everything becomes nothing.

"_I'm sorry._"

My mind is so numb that for a moment, I can't even tell which one of us has spoken. Even the meaning of those two words eludes me as they continue to reverberate again and again against the empty recesses of my mind. But slowly—_too_ slowly—I begin to recognize the familiar and unbearable emotion behind the tenor voice echoing in my ears. It's an emotion I've heard countless times before, and one for which I would gladly trade my life to never have to hear again.

_Jasper is in pain._

Panic and fear instantly bring my clouded thoughts into sharp focus, and I finally notice the awkward way our bodies our touching: my right hand gripping his left shoulder, my knees resting on his thigh, my stomach pressing against his left hand…

_Because of me. He's in pain because of me._

For the second time tonight, I have an overwhelming urge to run.

Running towards Jasper earlier had been effortless, weightless—like the anticipation and excitement and joy of seeing him again had somehow propelled me into flight. But trying to run _from_ him now is like attempting the same feat without the necessary wings. I struggle and fight beneath his arm until he finally lifts it from around my shoulders, and the instant I'm freed from its weight, I fall.

My head slams back against the couch with an audible _thwack_. It doesn't hurt really, but for just a second, I almost hope it's been enough. Enough to trigger whatever process that turned the first eighteen years of my life into a lifetime's worth of darkness; enough to erase at least the past five minutes from my memory; enough to make me forget the moment I derived pleasure from Jasper's pain. Of course, fate is never so forgiving, and so as I press myself into the corner of the couch and stare at Jasper's tightly-shut eyes and clenched jaw—an expression which is nearly identical to the one he wears each night as he watches me cook from the kitchen table—I'm consumed by a guilt I only remember having felt once before.

_You hurt him then, too_, the voice inside my head sneers as my gaze instinctively flickers down to his left arm. _Stupid girl, you weren't even paying attention. How could you be so thoughtless, so selfish, so—_

"Alice."

His voice is still so full of pain that I can't stand the thought of looking up and seeing that same feeling mirrored on his face again. After a few minutes of silence, I see Jasper reach out towards me, but before his hand touches mine, he balls his fingers into a fist and pulls his arm back against his side. I have to fight the urge to cry when I realize that my carelessness has probably ensured that he won't ever be able to touch me again.

"You didn't do anything wrong, okay?" Jasper says, his words tense and strained, and obviously spoken through clenched teeth. "This wasn't your fault."

_Not my fault?_ my mind repeats sardonically as I continue to watch Jasper's arm. _Of course it's my fault. I wasn't being careful; I wasn't watching what I was doing. And because of that…_

"I hurt you," I whisper pitifully, pulling my legs up to my chest and trying unsuccessfully not to think about how much worse his pain must be than the pain I woke up to in the hospital all those months ago.

_Ten times worse? _

"What are you talking about?" Jasper asks wearily, unclenching his fist and raising his hand out of my peripheral vision. "You didn't hurt—"

His words become muffled, and I imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

_Twenty? _

"Is that why you think I didn't…?

_Does it even compare_?

Jasper exhales forcefully, the caustic edge to his breath amplified as it resounds against the curve of his palm.

"Dammit, Alice, I _told_ you—I can't_ feel anything_ in that hand," he sighs, lowering his arm and flicking his fingers contemptuously against the sling for emphasis. "Not a goddamn thing. You didn't hurt me. Hell, you couldn't fucking hurt me if you _tried_."

For what seems like the hundredth time tonight, nothing makes sense. I keep my eyes trained on my lap while I struggle to sort out the confusing disconnect between Jasper's words and his tone. He's frustrated, but not angry; upset but not surprised. I didn't hurt him, but he's in pain. And somehow, this all adds up to the fact that the first lips I ever felt against my own were those of a statue.

"Alice," he continues, my name almost lost in the deluge of emotions that carries his voice to my ears, "this was _my_ fault, not yours. _My_ mistake. Understand?" Again, he reaches across the couch to me, and again, he drops his hand back to his side before it ever touches mine. From beneath my lowered eyelids I see him shake his head slowly from side to side.

"I'm sorry."

The apology that had been washed from my mind earlier finally finds anchor through repetition, and instantly, my head begins to ache under the weight of its implication. I'd felt his arms around me, his lips on my head, the soft panting of his breath against my skin, and for one tragic moment I'd actually deluded myself into believing that Jasper could see me as I've always seen him: as something more than a convenient ally in the struggle to wake up every morning and face a fractured life; as something more than a roommate or a friend; as something desirable and beautiful and whole. But I'm none of those things to him. And now he's apologized to me twice—not because he _couldn't_ kiss me back, but because he _didn't want to_.

I've had a lot of stupid, awful, repulsive thoughts in the nine months that constitute the entirety of my life, but the one I have the moment I understand Jasper's rejection trumps them all: _I actually find myself wishing that I'd hurt him_. I don't wish it because I'm sad or upset, or even because I want revenge for the lacerations his words are still etching into my heart. Rather, I wish I'd hurt him because there's always the hope that mistakes like that can be forgiven. But I didn't simply _make_ a mistake—I _am_ the mistake. And something tells me that no amount of penance or time will be sufficient to fix something like that.

I squeeze my arms so tightly around my legs that every joint from my knees to my shoulders cries out in protest. And then I squeeze even harder, like maybe if I can just break myself again, someone might be able to put me back together in a way that will make Jasper want me. But nothing snaps or breaks; nothing so much as _pops_. Apparently I'm doomed to remain a mistake forever. I almost laugh at how _right_ that designation sounds when attributed to me: the girl who should never have woken up, who should never have survived— an untouchable, undesirable, unlovable

"Mistake."

_Yup, it sounds even better when I say it out loud._

"I'm so sorry, Alice" Jasper mutters, each word like a hammer driving his misguided apology deeper into my skull. He shifts his body to face me, and I bury my head in my knees in an attempt to escape the equally torturous effects of his pitying gaze. "I knew better," he continues mercilessly. "I know I can't do shit like that. _Especially_ not with you… _Fuck!_ What the hell was I thinking?"

_especially not with you especially not with you especially not with_

"Alice, _please_, look at me," he says, finally breaching the distance between us to place his hand on my shoulder. Jasper's touch has always relaxed me—that's been one of the few constants in the otherwise overwhelming uncertainty of my life. But tonight, my already overstrained muscles grow impossibly tighter and begin trembling fiercely under the weight of his hand. My emotions have run such an exhaustive gamut in the past twenty minutes that it takes me longer than it should to understand my foreign reaction to his touch. Jasper, on the other hand, recognizes it immediately.

"Listen to me. This doesn't have anything to do with you. You don't have any reason to be ashamed."

I snort softly and rub my forehead roughly against my knees. The one person in the world who actually sees me, who understands me, who really _knows_ me has deemed me undeserving of his love. If shame's not an appropriate reaction to that type of rejection, then perhaps the accident has left me even more damaged than I'd realized. But though I feel justified in my embarrassment, I know that the more I let Jasper see it, the more he'll blame himself for being its cause. Despite my current emotional state, even I can recognize the injustice of his feeling guilt over _my_ flaws. Resolving to allow time for self-pity _only_ once I'm alone, I forcibly relax my tense muscles and raise my head to try and fix the mess I've created.

I had a whole speech planned. I'm sure it had something to do with how stupid I'd been and how sorry I was—as well as some lie about how I really hoped that we could go back to the way things were. I even had a pretty good idea of how things would play out once I'd started talking: Jasper and I would argue about whose fault it was, we'd eventually agree on sharing an equal measure of the blame, things would be weird for a few days, but after a while we'd settle into a slightly more painful degree of normal. This imperfect but tolerable future was really all I could hope for, given the circumstances—and I was prepared to do whatever it took to get us to that point.

The words die on my lips the minute I see his face. Before, I'd been so convinced that I'd hurt him that all I could process was his pain. But now, as I look into his storm-colored eyes, I see flashes of the things I'd missed before: sorrow, worry, doubt, concern—and beneath it all, a regret so deep that I actually find myself gasping for breath, like I'm trying not to let it drown me.

Jasper sighs and moves his hand so that his palm is cupped against the back of my neck. "You have no fucking idea how much I wish I could be the one to… how much I wish I was able to…" He closes his eyes and squeezes my neck gently before dropping his hand. "But I just fucking _can't._"

I stare at him blankly as my brain once again struggles to sort through the confusing bits of information in Jasper's half-formed sentences. That same instinct towards irrational hope that had prompted me to kiss him flares up again, this time kindled by the way some of his words might signify something resembling desire. But my overwhelming shame isn't fooled so easily. Even though I'm sure I don't really want to know the answer, the word '_can't_' sounds so insistently in my ears that I finally take a deep breath and ask, "Why not?"

Jasper opens his eyes and stares down at his hands. "Honestly, Alice, the fact that you even have to ask me that just proves the damn point."

I frown without comprehension. Or, rather, the part of me that _does_ finally understand why Jasper didn't kiss me back—the part of me that probably understood from the moment his lips froze beneath mine—is drowned out by the wretchedly optimistic voice that keeps telling me that I'm wrong. After everything we've been through, everything we've gone through to be with one another, Jasper can't _possibly_ still see himself through the same filter of self-loathing that tainted his vision when I first met him in the hospital. And surely, _surely_, he doesn't believe that _I_, of all people, could find any part of him repulsive or damaged or—

Jasper hunches his shoulders and turns his body ever so slightly to the left. It's a movement so small that I probably would've missed it if I weren't looking directly at him, but, like the last piece of an impossibly difficult and convoluted puzzle, that one little action brings the past nine months into unbelievably sharp focus. The fact that he tenses every time I touch him even though he claims not to be in pain, the fact that the only parts of his body I've seen are his neck, his face, and his right hand, the fact that he's still avoiding his family even though he so obviously wants to see them again—all of this points to the conclusion that Jasper still sees himself as nothing more than a walking nightmare. And what's more…

_It burns_.

Ever since then. That was the exact moment he decided that he'd rather live without me than trust me to see past his scars—that he'd rather let me suffer than give me the chance to prove how much he meant to me. All those months that I spent blaming myself, all that time that I spent wondering why I'd been allowed to live when I was so defective that even my touch caused people pain—all of that because he'd been afraid. And tonight, without even so much as a second thought, he'd made me feel all that again.

Anger doesn't come naturally for me. In fact, I can count the number of times I've been really and truly pissed off on one hand. But looking at Jasper now, I'm suddenly madder than I've ever been before. 'Hate' is a strong word; I've only ever hated one person, and she deserved it for all the lives that she ruined. But as my mind replays every moment of unnecessary pain, and sadness, and self-doubt that Jasper's put me through, I almost begin to hate him as well. I unravel my arms and legs and sit up straight on the couch, my anger making me feel ten times larger than I actually am. Jasper turns to face me when he feels me move, and I stare directly into his eyes as I speak slowly and deliberately, taking the time to enunciate each word.

"When will you realize that none of that _matters_ to me?"

He doesn't even seem surprised at my tone as he smiles sadly and shakes his head back and forth. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

My self-image grows another inch as my anger flares. "What the hell is that supposed to—"

"Look, d'you see this?" Jasper says, running his fingers over the faint, crescent-shaped mark above his left eye. He then pulls his collar to the side and turns his head to expose a faded pink scar that runs from somewhere below his collarbone to halfway up his neck. "And this? That's just the fucking _beginning_ of it. Believe me when I tell you that you don't want to see the rest."

I open and close my mouth a few times, seriously considering telling him that I've seen '_the rest_' before. I know that it'd be only partially true—that between the bandages and the hospital gown and the darkness, I haven't actually seen much more of his body than what he's just shown me. But if I could make him believe that I've already seen and accepted what he's so afraid to show me, then maybe he would—

"_Christ_, Alice," he groans, covering his eyes with his hand, "you can't even fucking _kiss_ me without worrying about hurting me. What the fuck kind of life is that? You can't possibly want to have to deal with—"

"Stop _doing_ that!" The sound of my fists slamming into the leather couch momentarily shocks even me into silence. For several seconds I just sit there, taking deep breaths through my nose, until I finally calm down enough to speak.

"'_You wouldn't understand_.' '_You can't want that_.' '_You don't know what you're talking about_.' You've been saying that kind of thing ever since the day we met, and I'm _tired_ of it. I may not _remember_ as much as you, or have as much _stuff_ as you, or be as _smart_ as you, but I'm not a _child_, Jasper, and I'm not dumb. I've been through _just_ as much crap as you, so don't you _dare_ talk to me like I'm too stupid to understand."

"_Just as much_…" Jasper rakes his hand down his face and slowly turns to look at me. His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering over the places my ridiculous uniform doesn't cover—my arms, my legs, the V below my neck. My residual frustration still clouds my thoughts, so it takes me longer than it should to figure out what he's looking for. Before I can think to flip my right wrist over and expose the jagged white scar that runs from my palm to my elbow, Jasper turns away again and closes his eyes. "You can't fucking fix me, Alice."

I let out an exasperated sigh and throw both hands in the air. "_Fix_ you? What on earth makes you think I want to _fix _you, Jasper_?_ You're not even _broken_!"

Jasper's head snaps up and he narrows his eyes at me in a gesture that clearly tells me that of all the stupid, thoughtless, foolish things I could've said, that was the very worst. "Not broken?" he whispers, his tone freezing the blood in my veins. "Not…"

He pushes himself up off the couch with so much force that he knocks two of the pillows to the floor. Stepping over them, he moves to tower over me, making me suddenly and acutely aware of the vast height difference between us. All traces of my anger disappear as I look wide-eyed into his unreadable face, and my rigid posture crumples under the weight of his stare.

"Stop," I mouth, the air necessary for speech getting caught in my throat as I realize what he's about to do.

"All right, _kid_, you wanna see 'not broken?'" he asks flatly, ignoring me as he removes the strap from around his neck.

"Please stop…"

Jasper rips the sling from his arm and tosses it on the floor. "I'll show you not fucking broken."

"_Stop it!_" I yell, finding my voice at the same instant that I reach out to prevent Jasper from pushing up his sleeve. He shrugs me off easily, but before he can carry through with his intention, I stand up and grab his forearm with both of my hands. I'd hoped that my touch would be enough to make him give up, but he continues to struggle against me so powerfully that it takes all my strength to restrain him. Somewhere in the back of my mind it registers that if some part of him didn't want this—didn't truly _want_ me to see what he'd convinced himself he couldn't show me—he wouldn't be fighting so hard. But since showing me for the wrong reasons would be just as bad as not showing me at all, I keep my fingers wrapped securely around his arm, even after he stops moving save for the staggered rising and falling of his chest.

"What's the matter, Alice?" he hisses. "Afraid of what you'll see?"

I've seen him angry before—murderously so; I've seen him frustrated and irritated and annoyed—usually all at once. It's never an easy sight to take, and I'd be lying if I said that his temper has never scared me. But never in my life have I been more afraid than the moment I look into Jasper's eyes and see that whatever's raging within him now is deeper, blacker, and more violent than anything I've ever known. I take a step back, and gasp when I see that same darkness clouding every aspect of his face. I don't even recognize him; I have no idea who he is.

"… Jasper?" I breathe, the fear in my voice audible even despite the whisper.

The man in front of me lowers his head so that our faces are almost touching, his cold, unblinking eyes never once looking away from mine. "That's what I thought," he snarls softly before tearing his arm from my grasp with so much force that I fall backwards onto the couch. I right myself just in time to hear Jasper's door slam shut and his deadbolt click into place. Then everything goes silent, and I suddenly find myself confused, terrified, and unquestionably alone.

----------

I spend Wednesday night on the floor outside his room. I lean against his door until the line between waking and sleeping is blurred so thoroughly that I no longer know whether or not I'm dreaming. He never makes a sound.

Cruelly the sun rises in the morning.

----------

I eat cereal straight from the box because we're out of milk. How strange that dry cornflakes should make me cry.

----------

… because _my_ guilt and _my _shame and _my _anger were so loud that I forgot how to listen to any voice besides my own. I heard what I wanted to hear and saw what I wanted to see, and so maybe it's possible that I never even kissed him at all. Maybe he never came home. Maybe he never left in the first place. Maybe he never asked me to move in with him, or found me in that restaurant, or answered when I started tapping on his wall. Maybe there never was a fire, and all this has just been me, lying in the gutter, waiting for someone to find me.

God… how long have we been working towards this moment?

----------

At some point I start talking. I tell him about how I decided to practice sitting in his car while he was away, and how I got all the way down to the garage before I remembered that I needed a key. I tell him about the guest who tipped me twenty dollars because he said my hair reminded him of the daughter he never sees. I tell him that I hated my hair until I saw the way he looked at me when he said that. I tell him how much I want to leave Philadelphia some day, and how nice I think it would be to live someplace where I could always see the snow. I tell him about the dinner I'd been planning to cook for New Year's, and how strange it is to think that yesterday was a year ago.

I tell him I want a key to his car.

When I run out of things to talk about, I start humming songs I don't know the words to. I can't even really be sure they're songs at all.

And every word I say is 'sorry.'

----------

The crepuscular light casts shadows on the wall that I've never noticed before. Or maybe I have, but everything seems so much longer now.

----------

There are no dishes in the sink, so I can't tell when he last ate, or if he's eaten at all. I make a sandwich and set it on the floor in the hallway far enough from his door that he won't step on it, but close enough that he can't help but see it.

I lie awake in my room with the lights on and the door open. I spend all night listening and waiting, but when morning comes, he still hasn't touched the food I brought him. The ham is dry, the lettuce is wilted, and the cheese looks and feels like plastic.

And now we're out of bread, too.

----------

I turn left instead of right out of my building when I leave for work. It takes me three blocks out of my way, but it's worth it not to have to walk beneath his window. I stop by the CVS again to get another Red Bull, and that same cashier as before is working the checkout line. He stares at me long and hard, and I want to ask him if he's ever woken up to find that it's raining, and left the house without an umbrella anyway so that no one would be able to tell he'd been crying. He won't look me in the eye when he hands me my change.

----------

_**Alice Brandon**_

_8:30-10:45: Rooms 211-236_

_10:45-11:00: Break._

_11:00-1:00: Rooms 530-554_

_1:00-1:30: Break_

_1:30-2:45: Rooms 707-723_

_2:45-3:00: Break_

_3:00-5:00: Laundry_

_Notes: See Terri._

----------

I see him sitting on the bench outside the hotel and 'hurt' becomes a ---- in my mind, like all the ---- and ------- of the past two days, or five days, or however long it's been since I've felt happy have ceased to mean anything at all. But his head is in his hand and the rain is turning his hair black, and so I can't feel ----- either. Because the ---- shadow I saw the last time I looked into his eyes is still part of him, ------- him, -------- him, and threatening to take him away from me for good.

I want to sit next to him and wrap my arms around his waist and watch his breath swirl in the lamplight. I want to press my head against his chest and listen to his heart beating above the sound of the driving rain. I want to tell him that I knew how much he was -------, but that I let us both go on pretending that everything was fine so that I didn't have to see his ----. I want to tell him that sometimes I think I know him better than I know the girl looking back at me in the mirror. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for the storm and for the groceries I forgot to buy and for all the things I wish I could say but can't.

But then he looks up at me and 'I want' disappears because _he needs_.

All my ----- words begin to --------- as his charcoal eyes ask again and again _are you sure?_ and again and again mine say _yes_ until he finally ------ ------- up off the bench. But he's not ----- convinced, and so he ----- down at me with ---- and ----- and ---- and asks one last time.

_Are you sure?_

_Yes._

And - ---- ----- -- ----- ------ --- then - ---- --- ---- all - ---- --- ---------- that's ---- --- ---- --- ---- -- - ---- ---- ---- left ------- --- ---- ----- ---- ------- is ---- - ---- _him_.

*******

**JPOV**

I just pray that she says something so that I can tell her to shut the hell up, or reaches out and touches me so that I can knock her hand away. I want her to shiver, or fold her arms across her chest, or pull her collar up around her neck so I can stare her down and remind her that it's her own damn fault she's out in the fucking cold. I want to insult her and belittle her and hurt her until I can watch the screen that skews her perception of who and what I am shatter into a million fucking pieces on the pavement. But she just keeps silently matching my pace, always exactly one step ahead of me, like she knows that if she doesn't lead I'll never find the will to walk the distance, and if she gets too far ahead I won't follow. And so we reach our building, and just like she always has, she leads me out of the rain and into a wholly different kind of storm.

I walk behind her onto the elevator, and when the doors slide shut I

_turn the lock and kick the door so hard I can feel the muscles ripping in my knee. I kick it again and the skin rips too, only this time it's in my foot and I can see the blood wetting my sock where the nail's peeled back from my toe. I smile because it hurts like hell, and I want to scream at her through the door that __this__ is what I want from her. I don't want her to hold me, I don't want her to hug me, and I sure as hell don't want her to kiss me. I want her to kick me and slap me and punch me until she damages me enough that I can't fucking hurt her anymore. I smile again when I realize that if Alice were to hit me just once for every fucked up thing I've put her though, she'd probably kill me long before she reached the final blow. And then I'm laughing so hard that I can't catch my breath, so I stagger over to my window going ha ha ha for every time I leave a bloody footprint on the floor, and I pull up on the glass and stick my head out the window and then_

breathe in the stuffy air, and think to myself how fucking twisted it is that smells I used to hate like citrus and cedar and vanilla now remind me of her. I hold my breath until the doors open onto our floor, and she must be holding hers too, 'cause when we step out into the hallway we exhale at the same time. And that almost does it—hypocrite that I am, I almost lose it right then and tell her that if she can't even stand to breathe the same air as me, then she has no business seeing the shit I'm about to show her. But before I can open my mouth she turns and starts walking towards our door, and so I just grit my teeth and follow.

Our shoes make slurping, sopping sounds on the carpet, and for only the second time since I've known her, Alice moves gracelessly—struggling under the added burden of her dripping clothes. The dampness makes no fucking difference to me, of course. I could be wearing dry jeans or wet jeans or nothing at all, and my left leg would still drag like it's chained to a twenty-pound stone. Alice stops in front of our door, and I

_watch a car run the red light at 39__th__ and Chestnut. And then I stop laughing 'cause there's nothing in the world funny about that. But the panting doesn't stop so easily, and soon I have to grip the windowsill because I'm so dizzy and weak that I can hardly stand. I barely make it to my bed before my knees give out, and all the joints in my body are like metal as I crumple onto the mattress. I lie there with my muscles screaming and my skin weeping sweat like tears, and try to focus on just one thing to stop the room from spinning. But my bookshelf spins and the door spins and even the darkness behind my eyelids spins, and the only fucking thing that __doesn't__ spin is the '__**Qty. 60**__' printed on the orange bottle with the white cap that's sitting on my desk._

_The room slows down and all of a sudden I'm hungry—ravenous—for chalk and copper and anything bitter. Spit pools beneath my tongue as I imagine emptying the bottle into my mouth and feeling everything dissolve in my stomach, filling my veins with something more powerful than blood. I'd never be hungry again after that. I'd never have to feel fear or guilt or pain. And even if I had to answer to the devil for all the things I've done, I'd never once ask for mercy. Because hell can't possibly be worse than this thing people flippantly refer to as 'life.'_

_I see her shadow creeping underneath my door, and I wonder if it will be painless, like falling asleep, or if my body will fight against it like it fought against the fire. I wonder if it will take her days to figure out what's happened, or if she'll realize immediately and try to break down the door. Maybe she already knows, and that's why she's sitting out there unmoving, unbreathing, like she's asking why the fuck I haven't done it already. _

_I wonder if what they say about the seconds before it happens is true. If it is, I wonder if I'll see my entire life, or if it'll be just bits and pieces, like pictures in my mind. I wonder if all the bad stuff gets filtered out, or if I'll have to relive all the stupid shit I've done. Or maybe it'll be more like impressions, like I might've possibly had a life once that meant something other than pain. _

_If I could choose, I'd just see—_

_Fuck that. People like me don't get a choice._

_I keep imagining what it might be like until I begin to notice the sunlight pouring in through the window, and then I feel incredibly stupid for spending all night wondering about something I could have experienced for myself hours ago. I take one last look at her shadow, and then I sit up, place the bottle between my knees, and twist the cap off, all the while really glad to be leaving a world where bottle-opening requires both fucking hands. I grind one capsule between my teeth, and nothing has ever felt so good as when it slides down my throat like dirt. Greedily, I pull five more out with my fingers and place them on my tongue. _

_But before I can bite down, I hear her._

_I don't know what the fuck she's saying, but the sound of her voice is enough to turn everything in my mouth so sickly sweet that I have to spit it all out on the floor. She keeps talking about god knows what until even the smell coming from the bottle is too much, and I shove it back across my desk towards the open window. _

_I don't even think about the 'almost' of what I've done as I lie back and cover my head with a pillow. Maybe I'll get lucky and one will be enough. I feel my heartbeat slowing, and so all that's left to do is _

wait as she fumbles with her keys. I don't make a move to help her, even when I see that her fingers are white and stiff with cold. I'm sure mine are too, but I can't feel it because 'cold' has become just another word that's lost its meaning like 'normal,' and 'peaceful,' and 'whole.' Finally she matches the right key with the right lock and manages to open the door, so I have no choice but to step across the puddle she's left on the carpet and follow her into the apartment. She closes the door behind me, and when she removes her coat I see that the rain's soaked through all the way to her skin.

I have to look at the ground 'cause her uniform is thin and hides nothing. She must realize it too, 'cause she crosses her arms over her chest and kind of bends in at the waist a little so that the fabric hangs away from her body. I look back at her then, and for a minute we both just stand there, dripping wet and awkward as hell, not really sure what to do next.

'Cause how do you show someone all the parts of you that you can't even stand to look at yourself? How do you trust someone when she tells you that she doesn't care what you look like, even though you know she doesn't really understand what it means to be scarred? How do you look someone in the eyes and show her everything that remains of your miserable life, all the while knowing that if she cringes, or cowers, or so much as blinks, that one little piece of you that's still left living will die?

You just fucking get on with it I guess, 'cause whatever the hell we're doing right now, that's not living either.

So I take over the leading, and she follows me into my room. I dig through my drawers and toss her a tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants that she'll have to roll ten times before her feet have any hope of sticking out the bottom. I know she has her own clothes, but this way, if she runs screaming from my room tonight, at least she'll have to take something of mine with her. I wait until she turns and walks towards the bathroom, and then I make my way over to the bed and

_let the drugs lull me into something that might be sleep, only when I open my eyes again, I'm anything but rested. _

_I don't even have to pull the pillow off my face to know that hers will not be among the shadows that fill the empty spaces of my room. Her absence hangs all around me, almost like it's been frozen into the raw, clammy air that's still drifting in through my window. It chokes me as it gives me breath, and I wish I'd been awake when she left just so I could've known without having to check whether or not she's ever coming back. _

_The spinning starts again when I push up out of bed, and I have to steady myself on furniture and walls and doorframes just to walk the twelve steps from my room to hers. Her door is shut, and the heart I'd forgotten I had pounds brutally against my ribs while my shaking fingers try to remember how to work the handle. Finally the door swings open, and my heart just about leaps into my goddamn throat 'cause nothing in the room is gone except for her. Her drawings are still tacked to the wall, her clothes are still hanging in her closet, and her bed is still made with the sheets we bought four weeks ago. _

_And that's when I understand that I have to fucking show her—that she'll never know how badly she needs to leave until she sees exactly why she's better off without me. I'll always need her and I'll always want her, but maybe if she makes the decision on her own, I'll be able to let her go. And then I'd be free to fade away until I weigh less, even, than the frozen winter air._

_My eyes flicker up to the lachrymal patterns streaking down her window, and I suddenly realize that I have no idea whether the grey light spilling into the room is that of morning or of evening. I don't even know what day it is. And really, it doesn't fucking matter. I could wait for her outside that hotel for five minutes, or two hours, or the rest of my goddamned life, and it would all be the same to me. Because somehow, I've gotten outside of time. _

_Like I've already begun to cease to exist._

_And so there's nothing left to do but close her door and_

lean against the bedpost to slip my feet out of my muddy shoes and blood-stained socks. I slide my unbuttoned jeans and boxers down over my hips, and then pull on a pair of flannel pants without once looking down at my ruined legs. I leave my sweatshirt on, but push the left sleeve up to my elbow and slowly begin unraveling the damp bandages from my hand. I make it through the first layer just fine, but when I get down to the yellowed gauze and antiseptic smell, my eyes begin to water and I have to

_use the walls for support as I make my way into the bathroom. I strip out of my clothes, and then stare down at the heap on the floor and try to remember what it felt like to be completely naked. But I can't. 'Cause I can't remember the last time I took a shower without first having to wrap plastic around one of my arms or legs to keep a bandage from getting wet. Nor do I know when I last changed my clothes without seeing the suit that holds my skin together and wondering why the fuck someone bothered to dye it beige, since even a child wouldn't be fooled by its supposed subtlety. And then I shake my head to clear my mind, 'cause thinking about that shit doesn't help anything. _

_I quit stalling 'cause I know I have to do this now, while I'm alone, since if she's anywhere near me later on, I'll lose my fucking nerve. So I start with the zipper over my chest, pulling it down until it comes to a stop just above my groin. I use my right hand to position my left foot on the toilet seat, and unzip the elastic over my calf. I undo the final zipper over my left biceps, and then slowly peel the constrictive wrapping from my body and watch my silhouette pool on the floor around my ankles. I can almost feel my scars growing as my skin thirstily drinks in the coveted air, but I couldn't fucking care less. Let them grow. After tonight, no one will ever see them again, anyway._

_I pull my boxers and jeans back over my hips, only vaguely aware that clothes that fit me fine a few days ago now hang on me loosely, like I mistakenly bought them two sizes too big. It's for the best, really, since the denim against my bare skin feels the way fingernails sound against a chalkboard—grating, scraping, unnerving. I'm about to find out how cotton feels against my chest when I hear a door slam in the hallway. I realize instantly that the likely intruder is simply the wind blowing in through my window, but even this quick comprehension comes too late. Because my head snaps up instinctively at the noise, and so without meaning to, I break Rule Number One of existing within a disfigured body: never __ever__ look in the goddamn mirror._

_I only catch a brief glimpse before I remember to look away, but seeing my mangled reflection for any length of time is more than enough to make a sheen of sweat break out on my forehead, and cause a familiar, metallic taste to build in my mouth. And then, since I apparently have no fucking sense of self-preservation, images of Alice's terrified face begin flashing in my mind, and the full weight of what I'm about to show her crashes down on me like a wave. Rather, I suppose it crashes __up__, since my stomach suddenly rolls violently, and, since I know I'll never be able to kneel down fast enough, I simply_

clutch my stomach as I gag uselessly into the air. I remove the rest of the bandages without looking, and then pull my sleeve back down over my hand, caring more that I'm staining my sweatshirt than about the fact that I'm probably giving myself an infection.

I hear the bathroom door open, and so I sit down at the end of the bed and wait for Alice to come back. I'm careful not to look at her when she enters the room, 'cause we've both come too far now for me to turn all chicken shit and beg and plead with her to forget any of this ever happened. So I watch her feet as she walks defiantly past my wet clothes, and the bloody footprints, and the half-digested pills and places something on my desk before taking a seat on the bed.

God… how must it feel to be fearless? What must it take to enter a room so full of hell that it reeks of fire and ash, and not even tremble as you sit down next to a deceptively corporeal incarnation of the devil?

I turn to face her then for what'll probably be the last time, since I doubt I'll be able to watch as she leaves me. Something like contentment stirs in me when I see the way she's swimming in my clothes and the way her feet hang over the bed without touching the floor, and I have to fight against the irrational desire to grab her by her shoulders and tell her how beautiful I think she is. I want to reach out and smooth her hair away from her face, and tell her that I could watch the rain trickle down her neck forever and be completely happy. And Alice…

… Alice, why can't I tell you that I'm sorry?

I meet her trusting, cinnamon eyes, and again I feel the urge to hurt her—I want to yell at her and call her naïve and tell her that despite what she thinks, she's just a fucking child who doesn't know any better than to believe in love and perfection and beauty. I want to scream at her that if she thinks I'm gonna ride her off into the sunset, she's got another thing coming, 'cause no one, not even she, could find the sun through all this fucking rain. But at the same time, I envy her the fairytale, and for one moment, I allow myself to wish that I could have heard her say 'I love you.' Just once would have been enough, and I could have played it in my mind like a record until I might've actually—

But it's too damn late for that now, which is a shame, really. It would've made a fucking gorgeous requiem.

She blinks, and that's all it takes for me to remember my purpose. I stand up slowly, and

_brace myself against the mirror as I retch into the sink. There's not much in me, but that doesn't stop my stomach from constricting wildly again and again, and I want to laugh when I realize that I'm trying to vomit away my Self. But I can't laugh because it hurts too much, and so I just keep repeating 'that wasn't me that wasn't me that wasn't me' until I almost believe the lie, and the nausea fades enough that I can sit down on the edge of the bathtub. But when I try to pull my sweatshirt on and I'm forced to look at my still-bandaged hand, the gagging starts all over again. At least this time, I'm close enough to the ground to use the toilet._

_It's still raining when I finally walk out into the hallway, and that's the only real indication I have that it's the same day now as it was when I first went into the bathroom. I throw my tee shirt and fake skin into my closet before slipping my shoes on and making my way into the living room. There's a piece of paper lying on the ground by the door, and I recognize it immediately as the newsletter our landlord hands out once a month reminding each apartment about noise levels and parking permits and the proper method for trash disposal. I usually just ignore it, but today the bold, cursive '__**Love Thy Neighbor…**__' at the top of the page catches my eye. I'm sure it's meant to be cute or clever or some shit like that, but all I can think is what a fucking ridiculous time for God. I've spent almost every day for the past year and a half wondering where the hell God has been, and today he slips beneath my door while I'm crouched over the toilet and wants to talk to me about love._

_Well. Fuck. That._

_I kick the paper underneath the couch, and then walk out into the main hallway, seriously hoping that slamming the door as hard as I can behind me constitutes a fucking noise violation. I realize I don't have my coat as soon as I step outside into the rain, but find that I can no longer be sure whether I forgot it on purpose or by accident. Either way, I don't go back for it._

_Even without a concrete sense of time, I can tell that the walk to the Sheraton takes much longer than it should. I have to stop every couple of feet to rest against a pole or a mailbox, and by the time I sit down on the bench outside the hotel, my clothes are heavy with rain. As I wait and pretend not to notice the stares of the hotel guests as they pass by me, I begin to hope that during these past however many days, Alice has changed her mind about my scars. I hope that I scared her enough the other night that she no longer wants to see them, or know about them, or even acknowledge their fucking existence. By the time I feel her standing in front of me, I've all but convinced myself of the certainty of this scenario. I raise my head—ready to tell her that I understand, and that I don't blame her—but my heart drops into my stomach when I see her face._

'_Cause there's nothing there but determination, and the longer I look into her eyes, the fiercer that determination becomes. Eventually I can't bear to see it any longer, so I stand up off the bench and_

walk around to the side of the bed that's furthest from the door, so that I can't stop her when she finally realizes that I've been right all along. I stand there for a second, trying to decide whether or not I should ask her to turn around while I take off my shirt, but in the end I don't bother, 'cause I know she needs to see this part of the whole damn mess as well. But, since I'm a fucking coward, I have to close my eyes, and it's only when I'm sure that I can't see a thing that I shrug my right arm out of its sleeve and pull one side of the heavy fabric up to my shoulder. I reposition my fingers, and then slip the sweatshirt over my head, which finally allows it to slide down my left arm and onto the floor.

I wait.

She doesn't move.

The refrigerator stutters to life in the kitchen. I take a shallow breath.

She doesn't move.

A car passes on the street. My legs begin to shake. I take another breath. Rain pounds against the metal roof. There's so much I wish I'd told her.

She doesn't—

ah, there she—

but she's not—

sweetmotherofgod her hand is on my chest

and her fingers are brushing against the ripples in my skin that look like wax that has been melted and cooled a dozen times and

I don't know when I open my eyes but I must because I watch and feel her fingers trace the deep red cracks that run like veins over my ribs and then she moves her hand down to my stomach and lays her palm against the smudge that was once my bellybutton and dips her index finger into the hole in my side where one of the early grafts went wrong and then she moves around to my back and I can't see her anymore which is heaven and

it's hell because I can feel her but I don't know whether she's lingering over the parts where the fire burned the outline of my shirt into my back or the parts that look like flesh-colored play dough or the place where the skin healed too tightly and the doctors had to reopen the wound to allow my shoulder to move

but then she works her way back to my front and I feel nothing at all so I look down and see her holding my left hand in hers and running the fingers of her other hand down my hairless and bruised forearm before tracing the edges of the graft that still looks more like mesh than skin and hides nothing of the exposed muscle beneath and then she places her right palm against my left and even though my hand is twice her size her fourth and fifth fingers still curl over the thick purple stumps where mine used to be and she doesn't even

flinch as she runs one hand up each of my arms like she's trying to smooth out all the folds and creases and wrinkles on my shoulders and my neck and my face and it's not until I see the tears rolling over her knuckles that I know that I'm crying and then I sink down on the bed and close my eyes because I can't stand to watch this anymore and that's the last real thought I have before the room goes dark and I'm

…_rounding third base as fast as I can, my cleats digging into the cool, hard earth. I feel the excitement of the crowd turning to adrenaline in my veins, forcing my legs to pump faster and faster until I slide into home plate a full second before the catcher's glove comes down on my shoulder._

…_kneeling down on the hill where Pemberton met Grant at Vicksburg, feeling a chill go through me as I think about all the ideology and the literature and the history that was born in just one moment of surrender._

…_standing shirtless in the midday sun, casting into the murky lake. Both Rose and I have had some bites, but Emmett has caught nothing and is getting bored. I'm about to reel in my fifth fish when all of a sudden, something hits me from behind, and I go crashing headfirst into the water—thankfully having the good sense to grab Emmett's arm and drag down with me as I fall. Rosalie's expression when we both rise, laughing and sputtering to the surface is all annoyance and disgust and disapproval. But when Emmett sloshes out onto the bank and moves with more speed than I thought him capable of to grab her and wrap his dripping arms around her waist, her face softens into humor and amusement. And then I know that he must truly make her happy, 'cause she laughs along with us when he picks her up and dumps her next to me in the water._

…_helping my mom fold laundry that smells like grass and dew and bluebonnets 'cause it's been left outside all night to dry._

…_dancing with my girlfriend at our senior prom. The music is fast, but we're moving slow—holding each other so close that neither of us can breathe—and she leans into my ear and whispers, "Don't ever let me go," and I kiss her cheek and tell her that I'll hold onto her forever. I say the word like we're both immortal, and maybe, just for that moment, we are, because at eighteen you can believe almost anything. _

_Except, of course, that you'll die._

That's the only thing I believe in now. I've never been more aware of life than I am in the moments I spend waiting for death. And I'm sure that this is dying, because you can only go for so long without eating or feeling or caring before you're not living anymore—even if your lungs are still filling with air fast enough to keep your heart beating. I'm almost there. I stopped eating and feeling long ago, and now all that's left for me to do is to stop caring and lose myself in the dark and hazy fog of memories where I can run towards home forever—where I can dance, and stand in the sun, and fall to my knees in awe of something greater than myself.

But no matter how close I come to crossing that line, something always drags me back into the life where none of that is possible anymore. The harder I fight it, the stronger it becomes, until the force of the pulling becomes so insistent that my eyes flutter open against my will.

I don't know how it happened, but somehow I'm lying on my right side, my left leg straight out against the bed and my right leg curled halfway up to my chest. My torso is still bare, but my left hand has been wrapped in bandages, and is resting on a pillow that's draped over my side. The top half of my right arm is sandwiched between the mattress and my ribs, but when my eyes travel to my hand, I finally understand why I haven't been able to escape into my darkness—Alice is here too, mirroring my position almost exactly on the other half of the bed, only both of her hands are wrapped around the one of mine so tightly that her knuckles are turning white from the strain.

This wasn't what was meant to happen. She was supposed to let me go. She was supposed to see all this and maybe feel pity or sympathy for a minute or so before understanding that she wanted no part of it, and walking out my door. She wasn't supposed to fight for me. She wasn't supposed stay.

I try to pull away, but every time I move, she tightens her grip on my hand. She's stronger than me, now. I sure as hell don't know how that happened since I'm a foot taller than her and twice her size, but no matter what I do, I can't untangle her fingers from mine. So I just look into her pale and worried face and plead with my eyes for her to let me go. But even when I try closing my eyes again, she's there—her voice smothering out all my other memories until all I can hear is

_you grind your teeth when you… just not looking hard enough… why do you have to be so damn… hello, Jasper… don't turn on the tv… so you __can__ hear me… because you came back… one complete person… I have four of them… none of that matters to_

My body convulses as I press my head into my pillow. I bite my lip and feel the tears start falling again because something inside of me has known all along that nothing I could show her would make her leave—that there are some kinds of love that run deeper than scars, and that Alice, and my parents, and my sister, and probably even my friends would be able to look past the things I've done and the things that have happened to me, and always see Jasper Whitlock. But I can't. I can't look in the mirror and see anything except for a stranger and a ghost. I've never even wanted to try, because hating what I am is so much easier than trying to love it.

But now I have no choice. 'Cause no matter how many times I close and open my eyes, she's still there, forcing me to acknowledge the things I've spent months pretending aren't a part of me. There are times when I lose myself during the night—when the pain of the life I've lost outweighs all aspects of the life I'm living. But no matter how far gone I get, Alice always brings me back.

At some point my eyes begin to focus on a thick, pink scar just above my right elbow. It takes me awhile to sort through all the original burns and subsequent surgeries to pinpoint exactly where this scar came from, but I finally remember that this was the donor site for the first graft I'd had—or at least, the first graft that I was aware of. Of course I remember the pain of that operation—something like that is pretty fucking hard to forget. But what I remember more is everything that happened after. I remember watching Alice walk into my room. I remember the thrill I felt at having her so close that I could reach out and touch her, and the way her voice sounded like mercury the first time I heard it unobstructed by the wall. I remember the selfish joy I felt when I realized she'd spent the night in my room, the longing I felt to have her back with me again, and the wonder I'd felt when she came back the next night, and the next, and the next…

All because of one scar.

I can't call it beautiful—I still don't like looking at it, and I hope to god that someday it fades to a point where it no longer glows like a neon sign every time I take off my shirt. But I can't wish it gone either. I can't even wish that I'd never gotten it—or say with absolute certainty that I wish there'd never been a fire—because all the marks on my body have led me to this moment, in this bed, with this woman, whose love is the only thing strong enough to tie me down to this world.

For the first time all night, I squeeze her hand.

Her fingers shift slightly, like she's still bracing for me to try'n pull away. I swivel my head upwards on my damp pillow to meet her tired eyes, and then squeeze her hand again. This time her grip loosens as mine gets tighter, and we eventually reach equilibrium, a single pulse beating evenly between our two palms.

I want to say something. At the very least I know that I should apologize, or thank her, or assure her that even though there's still a fucking long way for me to go, I think I'll be okay. But there are no words for this. There's nothing I can say that won't cheapen the hell we've just been through, or the miracle it is that we've both come out on the other side. So I just hold her hand and keep my eyes locked on hers as a few residual tears run down my cheek and disappear soundlessly into my pillow.

I finally break the tension by shivering as a gust of cold air blows in through my still-open window. Alice trembles lightly as well, and it suddenly seems really fucking ridiculous that I left my window open for days in the middle of winter. Slowly, I feel one of Alice's hands peel away from mine, and I stare at the white marks her fingers have left behind as she reaches over the bed and picks one of my tee shirts up off the floor. I reluctantly let go of her completely so that she can shut the window as I struggle into my shirt, and by the time I get my head through the neck hole, she's standing in front of me again, one corner of her mouth lifted into an almost imperceptible smile as she hands me a glass of water. I don't know when she got it—I don't know if she left sometime during the night, or if she brought it with her when she first got back from the bathroom—but honestly, I don't care. No matter when she got it or where she got it from, this is, without a doubt, the best fucking water I've ever had in my life.

When I'm done, she takes the glass from me and sets it on the desk, and then just continues to stand in front of me, like she's not sure what to do next. I can't really blame her for her confusion—after all, I haven't said a word to her in days, and I have no idea whether or not she understands how much I owe her. I'm absolutely certain that she doesn't know—can't know—how I truly feel about her, since I wasn't even aware of the depth of that emotion myself until I squeezed her hand. But the immitigable chasm between words and feeling gets impossibly greater when you start talking about things like "love," and to speak the words "I love you" now would be tantamount to blasphemy. Maybe later—when the world doesn't hinge on our connection—maybe then I'll be able to tell her. But now…

Now I grab her hand and pull her to me so that her face is inches from mine. I run my hand up her arm and over her shoulder until it comes to a rest at the base of her neck. And then I kiss her. I kiss her like I should've kissed her the other night when I came home from the hospital, or the day I met her in the restaurant, or the first night she came into my room. I kiss her as I should've kissed her every time I've picked her up from work, or every time she's felt sad or happy or nothing at all. The thousands of kisses I've been storing up since I've known her all come pouring out of me at once, and she tilts her head back, opens her mouth wide, and drinks them all down slowly like water.

We both pull back for air long before my enormous debt is paid. I don't want to stop, but seeing the dark shadows beneath Alice's eyes reminds me that I have no idea how long it's been since either of us slept. So, I lean my forehead against hers until our breathing slows, and then lie back on the pillows and pull her down next to me so that her head is resting on my shoulder. She drapes a blanket over us, and then I squeeze her arm and kiss the top of her head, letting her know that it's finally okay for her to rest. I wait only until I'm sure she's asleep before allowing myself to relax against the mattress. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is her upturned face, bathed in the soft, silver light of morning.

* * *

**Credit Where Credit's Due:**

**Twila Reaux** helped with all of this, but she really deserves a co-authorship credit for the opening stanza in the Alice section. I could not, and did not, do that alone.

I got some of the formatting ideas for the JPOV from **Requiem** by **Twila Reaux**, **Gravity** by **Nightshade713**, and **Dueling Banjos** by **Cat of Kilkenny**.

Anywhere in the chapter where the characters talk about a failure of words is influenced by either Jonathan Safran Foer or William Faulkner. Additionally, the phrase "immitigable chasm" is Faulkner's, not mine.

I don't listen to music while I write, but I do listen to it when I think. The following songs helped me enormously, especially for the JPOV:

--**Eli and Oscar**, **Eli's Theme**, and **Then We Are Together**: all by **Johan Soderqvist**, found on the **Let the Right One In** soundtrack.  
--**Pool of Freedom** by **Mark Snow**, found on the **Crazy in Alabama** soundtrack.  
--**Never Say Never** by **The Fray**.  
--**Broken** by **Lifehouse.**

This story has a wonderful forum over on twilighted. Please come hang out! We're nice, I promise. http://www. twilighted. net/forum/viewtopic. php?f=44&t=2702&st=0&sk=t&sd=a


	17. Synonymous

**A/N: I'm trying something a little different with these next two chapters. In an effort to get updates out more quickly, I've decided to give each POV its own chapter. Unless I have a really, **_**really**_** good reason to keep the two POVs together, my intention is to break them up from now on. **

**Thanks to my alpha, Twila (and her undying love for the Beatles), for all her assistance on this chapter. No matter how many times I thank her, it's never enough.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: _Synonymous_

"_Les peuples comme les astres ont le droit d'éclipse. Et tout est bien, pourvu que la lumière revienne et que l'éclipse ne dégénère pas en nuit. Aube et résurrection sont synonymes. La réapparition de la lumière est identique à la persistance du moi."_

"_People, like stars, are entitled to eclipse. All is well, provided the light returns and the eclipse does not degenerate into endless night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is the same as the survival of the soul."_

_~Victor Hugo, __Les Misérables_

_

* * *

_

**APOV**

Bells toll from the Catholic Church down the street, ushering me into waking. Their vibrations drag through the air, carrying what would otherwise be inaudible sounds with them until the space around me is filled with the myriad and sanctified voices of the Philadelphia Holy. And so I know that it is Sunday, and I have lost an entire day to sleep.

As the final knell hangs lazily in the air, I allow myself one evanescent moment of believing that all this has been a dream; that when I open my eyes, I'll be lying in my own clothes, in my own room, facing the empty half of my own bed. But I only ever have one dream, and it never ends with my pillow stinking of unwashed hair and sweat and tears, or my eyes flitting open to see Jasper lying next to me, his silhouette chiseled into the light of the still-rising sun.

So my faith in dreams fades along with the eight o'clock bell, and then the only thing left to fill the immeasurable space of this room is the quiet tableau of peace Jasper and I have fabricated against the uneven canvas of his mattress.

People talk about watching someone sleep as if the act grants witness to a miracle—as if the sum of human beauty can only truly be measured in moments of pre-dawn voyeurism. And right now, I want that. I want the wonder and the reverence; I want to be able to look at his sunken cheeks and chapped lips and matted hair and say, _my god, how beautiful_. But all I can think is _he's too pale_ and _he's too still_ and _move, move, move_, until I have to clench my fists and bite down on my tongue to keep from grabbing his shoulders and screaming at him to open his eyes. Even watching the rising and falling of his chest isn't enough—I have to spread my palm over his too-defined ribs and wait until I feel the faint yet steady beating of his very living heart before my own breathing can resume. Only then can I trust that Jasper's stillness is that of sleep.

I wish I could chide myself for overreacting. I wish I could snuggle up against him, press my lips to the underside of his jaw, and laugh away all of my silly, irrational fears while I wait for him to wake. But every time I look at him, my mind grows cloudy with the unsettling and unshakable feeling that time for us has stopped; that even though the world outside our window is eight hours into its Day of Rest, Jasper and I are still caught in an endless stormy night. It seems to me that the pile of muddy clothes on the floor is still wet—that the cold air is still creeping through the window and freezing in my lungs, choking me from the inside out. In every breath that he takes I still hear panting and sobbing, and in the pause between each of his heartbeats, my fingers still ache like I'm clutching his hand—terrified to let go, terrified to hold on.

I didn't need to feel his tears threading through my fingers to know how much hope he'd placed in my fear, like we'd been playing a dangerous game of chicken, and he was just waiting to call me on my bluff. And I didn't need to see the pills on the floor to know what the cost would be if I were to lose. But Jasper has always underestimated me, and he was wrong if he truly believed that I could run from him, or that I could walk out of that room after seeing the bloody epitaph he had already printed for himself on the floor. He was wrong for having faith in my weakness; he was wrong for thinking that I wouldn't have the strength to hold him.

But he was right, too. Because all those times when he tried to tell me about what had happened to him, I didn't listen. I thought I already knew what scars were. I thought I knew what it was like to feel paralyzed by your own perception of yourself—to not want to move 'cause when you're lying motionless in the dark, you can still pretend you're anyone or anything other than what you are. I thought I knew what it was like to feel inhuman.

I didn't know a damned thing.

I had to look away. He stood there showing me everything, and because I was a hypocrite, because I was stupid and naïve and all the things I assured him I wasn't, I turned my head and shut my eyes. I suppose I could defend myself by saying that I couldn't help the basic, self-preserving mechanism that compels humans to turn away from such violence, such damage. But I know that's just an excuse, and a rather lame one at that. Because I know Jasper better than anyone else; I've known him for my whole life, and when he needed me to watch, when he needed me to _see_, I couldn't even stand to look at him.

Now I think that there must be a God, and that God must care for Jasper more, even, than I, because Jasper never saw the way I looked at him. The whole time that I waited for the supposed blindness of affection to settle on my vision, his eyes remained shut, so that he never knew the extent of my betrayal—which was fortunate, since the blindness never came. Even lying here with him now, I cringe when I think about how flesh seems to hang on his torso, like somehow there's too much skin and not enough skin all at once. His scars are not like marble. His scars are not beautiful.

But I love him.

_Jesus, I love him._

I know that he only showed me his scars because he thought it'd make me leave him, but through the simple act of taking off his shirt, Jasper gave himself wholly over into my hands. It was that knowledge, that understanding that I was finally free to know all of him, to love all of him, that eventually gave me the courage to stand up off the bed and place my fingers on his chest. His skin was like sandpaper and plastic and peeling paint and rubber depending on where I touched, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done to keep my fingers moving. But the whole time, I could feel my love for him expanding to encompass every single one of his scars, so that by the time I pressed my right palm to his left, everything I had felt for him in the months leading up to that moment suddenly seemed very, very small.

I wrapped his hand in gauze and then pushed him gently back on the bed, and the whole time he stared past me, through me, at something that could've been either heaven or hell for the way his body shook against the mattress. But not being able to see whatever it was that he saw did not spare me from feeling what he felt. The shame, the guilt, the defeat, the exhaustion—degrees of aching that I didn't even have words for poured out of him and into me as though our hands were full of holes. And even though the things that passed between us felt like tar as they slogged through my veins, the slow burning was preferable to what happened when he stopped struggling against me and went completely still. Because then I felt nothing at all, and I couldn't even really be sure that he was still alive. It was like he died again and again that night, and the part of me that believed in the infallibility of human life died along with him every time my fingers reached up to absorb another one of his tears_._

But somehow, I held on.

A few days after my accident, the ambulance squad that found me on the street and brought me to the hospital came to visit me. Three of the paramedics stood at my bedside and asked me to smile through the stitches and the bruises as they snapped picture after picture with their pretty silver cameras. But there was a fourth, a very young man with very blue eyes, who hung back by the door while the others made me a trophy for their heroism. He never said a word, but he looked at me as though he was waiting for me to speak—as though my voice could construct a bridge across whatever invisible barrier made him unwilling or unable to come near me. But I didn't know what to say, and so he slipped out of the room while I wasn't looking, without even telling me goodbye. I only ever thought of him once after that: the night that Jasper and I saw him immortalized on the evening news, his unmistakably blue eyes wide with urgency as he carried my lifeless body away from the debris and the smoke and the blood. And even then, I couldn't interpret the silent screaming in his gaze.

Today, though, I think I understand. If I could see that boy again, I'd walk up to him and wrap my arms around his neck and whisper into his ear that he did the right thing. I'd tell him that living is enough for me—that even if I never find my parents or never get used to my own reflection in the mirror, living is enough. I'd smile at him and tell him about the things I want to do and the places I want to see, and then, maybe, he'd finally be able to forgive himself for saving my life.

I wonder if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for saving Jasper.

Maybe once, it was sufficient for him just to breathe. Maybe once, he could fall asleep at night and think to himself _yes, yes, tomorrow will be worth the waking_. But for Jasper, life no longer justifies itself. There has to be something more.

When he kissed me, my body was teeming with so much passion and release and hunger that the only thing I could think was _this… this…_ as my mouth effortlessly matched his desperate tempo. Now though, watching his chest rise and fall beneath my hand, it seems to me that the kiss was more accusation than liberation. I saw and felt and understood everything that it takes for him to be alive, and still, I pinned him down and forced him to remain a part of it all. That demands justification.

But hell, I'm just a _person_. I breathe air and get sick and feel pain. I screw up. I laugh at inappropriate times, I have an irrational hatred of Christmas decorations, and the nicest thing I own in the world is a pair of black satin shoes. How can I make up for all the things he's lost? What can I give him that he doesn't already have?

I let out a long, slow breath, suddenly exhausted despite my ridiculously long sleep. But I'm also hungry and filthy, and probably smelly as well, though Jasper and I have both been lying in this bed so long that everything has begun to smell the same. Even if I'm desensitized to it though, it's still all kinds of nasty, and so taking shower and pilfering the scant contents of our kitchen definitely seem to be in order before I can even hope to _start_ figuring out exactly where Jasper and I go from here.

Carefully, I lift my hand and begin to turn away from him. But before I can complete the movement, Jasper's hand catches my shoulder and pulls me back against him so that my head comes to rest on his chest.

"Not yet."

So many moments in my short life have been defined by desertion: at some point, my family must have made the conscious decision to leave me, and Jasper has left or told me to leave more times than I care to count. But now he wants me to stay, and for the life of me, I don't know whether to be frightened or thrilled. His voice is tired and gravelly; his grip on my arm is weak. But he's speaking to me, he's _holding me_…

… _and, dammit, I don't know what any of this means._

Jasper must sense my hesitation, 'cause he reaches around my shoulder and places two fingers underneath my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet.

"Are you all right?" he asks, moving his hand to trail his fingers soothingly up and down my arm.

There was a time when I would've laughed at him in disbelief for a question like this; a time when Jasper's hurt belong solely to Jasper, and mine to me, so that the two never converged. But now the only thing I can be completely certain of is the sudden absence of my emotional autonomy. Everything is conditional now, and the only way I can fairly answer him is with a question of my own.

"Are _you_?"

Surprisingly, Jasper doesn't roll his eyes or huff at me like my concern is some kind of joke. Instead, he turns his head and just stares out at the room for a minute before dropping his gaze down to his left arm, which is still propped up on a pillow. For once, there's no anger or disgust in written on his face. Rather, he frowns down at himself in something like confusion, as though his body is a mathematical equation which he's trying to solve for the missing variable. I want so badly for something in me to factor somewhere, _anywhere_ into that calculation, that without even pausing to think about what I'm doing, I stretch my arm across his chest and place my hand on top of his.

He closes his eyes, but apart from that, his body goes absolutely still. My gut reaction is to pull my hand back and apologize. But before I can move, one corner of Jasper's mouth lifts into a small but perceptible smile.

"What?" I ask cautiously, searching his face for any indication of irony. There is none.

"I'm holding your hand," he offers simply, squeezing me tightly against him and pressing his lips into my hair.

Some part of me recognizes that Jasper's misplaced pronouns are important. Somewhere in the back of my mind it also occurs to me that neither of us has been able to tell the other that we're all right, and that somehow, our silence is both appropriate and necessary. But all of that can be mulled over and rationalized later. Right now, all that matters is Jasper's smile. It pierces through the stagnancy of time as the light from a struck match ripples through the stillness of night, and somehow the two of us have rejoined the world. Hand in hand. Together.

I twine my fingers with Jasper's as the church bells begin ringing out again, signaling the end of Mass. Every Sunday for a month I've woken up to the same sounds, and every Sunday for a month I've lain in bed and wondered how a religion engendered in a moment of death could possibly inspire such beautiful music. But this morning, with the memory of everything Jasper and I have been through still fresh in my mind, I think I finally understand.

Sometimes, death is just the beginning. Sometimes the sun rises over an impossible morning, and you open your eyes to see that your world has been irrevocably changed without fully understanding the mechanics of how or why. Sometimes you wake to find an infinite promise in a breath, a touch, a smile, and you're almost terrified that something so small can mean so much. Sometimes hope is enough to exculpate even the most oppressive of realities, and in those moments, maybe music is the only language with enough words.

----------

We lie together until our comfortable silence is broken by my stomach's loud and angry protest against my two-day fast. As I reluctantly peel myself from Jasper side, I realize that the last time I actually saw him eat anything was the day before his surgery. A full week ago.

_Holy crap_.

Jasper offers to order food while I get cleaned up, and when I get back from what's possibly the best shower I've ever taken, Jasper is sitting on the edge of his bed, reading his credit card number into the phone. He looks so fragile. His lips, his eyes, even his hair all appear virtually colorless, so that his whole face resembles the faded quality of a shirt that has been washed too many times. I want to tell him not to worry about showering, or the food, or anything else—that I'll take care of everything while he rests. But I've never fussed over him before, and doing so now seems glaringly inappropriate, so I just bite my tongue and smile shyly at him when he closes his phone and kisses my forehead. And when he stands and begins making his way slowly towards the bathroom, I start stripping the bed in lieu of asking him if he wants any help. When it comes to Jasper's health, I'm pretty sure we've finally moved beyond half-truths and evasion. If he needs me, he'll ask.

Once I've changed the sheets, I phone in sick to work for the first time since I started at the hotel. Then, since whatever food Jasper ordered is bound to be either fried or laden with MSG, I rifle through our refrigerator until I find enough ingredients to pull together a halfway decent salad. By the time Jasper emerges from the bathroom, the delivery has arrived and I have everything set up on the coffee table by the couch. He eats slowly and deliberately, like he's testing whether or not his stomach remembers what to do with food. After about five minutes he announces that he's full. He drapes his arm across my shoulders and watches ESPN while I finish eating, and before the first commercial break, he's already asleep.

As best I can tell, that's pretty much how Jasper spends the next four days.

I can't really fault him for this. His body has been under enormous strain, and obviously, he needs time to recover. Whenever he _is_ awake, he always makes a point of physically connecting us—his arm around my shoulders, his hand on the back of my neck—like he's afraid that if we're not touching, one of us might disappear. To that end, he lies on the couch with me each night until I'm ready to go to sleep, and then takes my hand and leads me into his bedroom. He kisses my forehead each evening before he turns off the light, and each morning when my alarm goes off for work. It's all very cute; it's all very normal. It's all very awkward.

Whenever Jasper and I happen to be awake at the same time, we fill the silence with petty conversation about sports or the weather or my job. Here we are, having gone from 'two persons living in the same apartment' to this strange and indescribable plural, and we've never freaking _discussed_ what that means. I love the fact that he wants to hold me all the time, but hate the fact that he's never truly kissed me again since Friday night. I don't want to be his security blanket. 'Dating' and 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' seem like such silly terms, but still, I want hear him to say them_._ I want to know what _we are_.

By Thursday afternoon, I'm so emotionally and physically drained from thinking about all of this that all I want to do is go home, eat dinner, and fall asleep—preferably without having to hear a single word about the Knicks or the Cowboys or the Quakers. But as soon as I walk through the door, I know that something's different. Jasper's not sprawled out on the couch like he usually is, and he doesn't answer when I tentatively call out his name. Fortunately, I think to check my phone before I allow myself to worry, and as soon as I turn it on, I receive a text from Jasper: '_getting dinner. be back soon_.'

The message was only sent a few minutes ago, so I take a quick shower, change into some sweats, and then head back out to the living room to wait for him. As I flop lazily down on the couch, I happen to notice my application for front desk receptionist lying face down on the coffee table. I left it sitting there over a week ago, hoping that Jasper would make good on his promise to help me fill it out when he got back from the hospital. Obviously, its completion has been the least of my worries since that night, even despite my boss' insistence that I get it into her ASAP. But maybe I can convince Jasper to go through it with me once tonight, especially given the fact that he seems to be feeling better. If nothing else, it'll at least be a welcome relief from the decided awkwardness of our recent conversations.

I grab a pen off the table, thinking that I might be able to at least fill in my name and address while I'm waiting. But when I flip the papers over, I see that the Personal Information section—along with the rest of the application—has already been completed in Jasper's hand. He's also included a short but detailed resume and an absurdly long cover letter that manages to explain away the gaps in my application in a way that makes them sound like strengths. Phrases like "overcoming obstacles," and "positive attitude" and "outstanding work ethic" litter the pages, and I'm almost embarrassed by how important my small little life sounds when filtered through his words. He's made me sound brave and fearless and strong, when in reality, most of the time I feel anything but. I flip through the application wondering if this is really how he sees me or if he's just trying to tell my employers what he thinks they'll want to hear. Either way, I can't help but feel a little bit like a fraud.

I'm on my second read-through of the cover letter when I hear a key turning in the lock.

"Can you grab a couple of these?" Jasper asks when he looks in the apartment and sees me. I place the papers carefully down on the table and then meet him at the doorway and help him pick the bags up from where he's set them on the floor. We bring them into the kitchen, and I start pulling out the covered containers while he takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack. I hear him enter the kitchen and stand next to me, and when I turn to look at him, my breath catches loudly in my throat.

Because despite the sling he has around his neck, and the fact that he's still noticeably thin, Jasper is _Jasper_ again. His scruffy beard is gone, and there's color in his face and warmth in his eyes. Suddenly, the exact definition of our relationship doesn't matter to me anymore. I just want to feel his arm around me, and his lips on mine, and his—

"What?" Jasper asks, raising his eyebrow at my gratuitous staring. I avert my eyes as I try to think of a response that doesn't involve some combination of the words 'you,' 'me,' 'bed,' and 'now.'

"You filled out my application," I finally blurt out, my nervousness sounding shamefully similar to accusation.

He shrugs and starts uncovering the food I've placed on the counter. "You left it sitting out. My handwriting's atrocious, though. I did it in pencil so that you can erase it and go over it in pen if you want."

"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly, wincing immediately at how ungrateful I sound. I'm about to apologize and thank him, but my train of thought is diverted when I notice the contents of the foil containers.

"What's all this?"

Jasper reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. "I found this on the fridge," he explains, frowning slightly as he hands it over to me. "I realized I sorta ruined your New Year's dinner, so I called around to catering places 'till I found one that could cook all the stuff you were gonna make. I guess this is kind of my way of saying, 'sorry for being so useless lately.'"

I don't know whether to smile or laugh or cry as I look at the crumpled shopping list in my hands and remember how excited I was when I planned this meal, and how stupid it all seemed when I was sitting outside his room on New Year's Day. Now, though, it feels like the significance behind this silly little dinner has come full circle—'cause thinking about how much trouble Jasper must've gone through to do this, it suddenly seems like sauerkraut and black eyed peas and roast pork are the most monumentally important things in the world.

I drop the list on the counter and then wrap my arms around his waist. "This is—"

I stop myself before I assign some ridiculously pathetic platitude to how much Jasper's gesture means to me. Instead, I just squeeze him a little tighter and murmur a sincere "thank you," into his chest.

Jasper laughs once and kisses the top of my head. "You're welcome. Now, can we eat? I'm fucking starving."

I help him carry the food out to the table, and then serve us both the side dishes as Jasper cuts his meat into bite-sized portions with a custom knife that's designed for one-handed use. Even though I must've watched him use this utensil dozens of times, it feels like I'm seeing it for the first time tonight. This is the kind of thing that I turned a blind eye to before. I never wanted to think of Jasper as different—I never wanted to allow him the loss of his normalcy.

"So, what else did you do today?" I ask, sitting down and stabbing guiltily at my peas.

Jasper's eyebrows furrow pensively as he chews his food. "Well," he says at last, "I e-mailed my professors from last spring and asked them if I could make up some work and get credit for my incompletes. I'm still waiting to hear from a few of them, but it looks like I'll be able to write a few essays and pass."

"That's great!" I say, with admittedly too much enthusiasm. Over the past few days though, I've become convinced that half the reason it took him so long to open up to me was because he had too much time on his hands. For someone who already over-thinks _everything_, time can be very dangerous. Any distraction from himself can really only be a good thing at this point.

Jasper nods. "I also called my parents," he says with affected casualness as he spears a piece of meat with his fork.

My mouth drops open mid-chew. Of course I knew that he'd talk to his parents again someday, but I never really expected that it would be so _soon_. It worries me that he's not exuding the same unmistakable sense of relief I saw in him the day he talked to his sister. But neither does he look particularly angry or upset. If anything, he just seems strangely anxious, concerned—which, naturally, causes my already frayed nerves to begin firing again.

"Oh?" I ask, feigning nonchalance by turning my attention back to my plate. "How did that go?"

"Fine, I guess," he says, pausing to chew and swallow a bite of food before continuing. "Apparently Rose and Emmett are moving back here in the spring so that Em can finish school. They're flying out in April to look for a place and interview for jobs, and I think my parents are gonna come with them."

He brings his glass up to his lips and then quickly adds, "They, uh, wanttomeetyou."

I freeze as I am, the hand holding my fork suspended midway between my plate and my mouth. "You _told_ them about me?"

Jasper drops his gaze and fidgets uncomfortably in his chair. "'Course I did. I mean, I figured they were gonna find out sooner or later, so I might as well tell 'em now."

I place my fork on the table and stare at him incredulously. He hasn't even talked to _me_ about _us_. And now he's told his parents whom he hasn't spoken to in almost a year that—that _what_? That I'm his roommate? His friend? The person he confuses the hell out of with his unpredictable mood swings and erratic behavior? The person who occasionally shares his bed?

"What did you _say, _Jasper?"

He takes a long drink of water, and then sighs as he sets his glass carefully back on the table. "Don't worry, Alice. I just told them that you took over Emmett's half of the lease. No big deal."

I lower my eyes and stare quietly down at my plate. I hadn't really been expecting any particular answer, but his understated perception of our relationship still manages to echo painfully in my chest. Every time our eyes meet my stomach flips in excitement; every time he touches me my heart takes off beating in a full-out sprint. How can all of this still be '_no big deal_' to him?

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jasper asks, reaching over to take my hand in his. I force myself to smile up at him, refusing to let my disappointment ruin all the effort he's put into this evening.

"I'm just really tired," I say, yawning for effect. "It's been a long couple of days."

I can tell from the expression on his face that he's not at all satisfied with my answer, but releases my hand anyway and picks up my empty plate.

"I can clean up if you wanna just go—"

I shake my head and push back from the table. "No, I'll help."

Jasper boxes up the leftovers while I do the dishes, and between the two of us we get everything put away fairly quickly. I hum softly to myself the whole time we're working, but apart from that, neither of us says anything until we're both in the bathroom, getting ready for bed.

"You know, I never really pegged you as a Beatles lover," Jasper says, catching my eye in the mirror as he dries his face with a towel.

I put my toothbrush back in the holder and then turn to look up at him. "A _whose_ lover?"

"That song you were humming—_Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_?" I stare at him blankly, completely unaware that I'd been humming a recognizable tune. Jasper sighs and takes my hand. "Come on, I'll show you."

He leads me into his room and has me lie down while he fiddles with his offensively large stereo system. After a few minutes, he turns off the light and joins me on the bed, and once I'm securely curled up against his side, he grabs a remote off his desk. Sure enough, the minute he hits 'play,' the same melody I'd been absently humming a few minutes ago comes filtering out of the speakers.

I'm actually a little relieved that the song doesn't trigger any memories—I've had just about as much emotional turmoil as I can handle for one week. Instead, it invokes a sense of nostalgia that's somehow peaceful, even if I can't remember what it is that I'm supposed to be nostalgic _about_. Even Jasper seems to relax under its influence, and by the end of the song, there's a complacency and comfort surrounding us that I haven't really felt with him in weeks.

We listen through a couple more tracks by the same band, and each one is as familiar and yet somehow unrecognizable to me as the last. Of course, Jasper can't resist enlightening me with a bit of trivia, so at the beginning of each song, he tells me exactly which recreational drug inspired its composition. Fortunately or unfortunately, we've both been under the influence of enough morphine to find some of the invoked images both accurate and hysterically funny, and by the end of the fourth or fifth song, I'm laughing so hard that my stomach actually hurts.

"All right, what about this one?" I ask breathlessly when he doesn't immediately offer up an explanation for the innocently-titled _Here Comes the Sun_. I'm expecting him to tell me that melting ice and smiling faces are just metaphors for cocaine, so it surprises me a little when I feel his lips brush lightly against my temple instead.

"Actually," he murmurs softly into my skin, "this song isn't about drugs at all."

My entire body is suddenly alert with the awareness that this is a wholly different kind of contact than anything I've been exposed to over the past week. I instinctively press myself closer to Jasper as a slight shiver runs from my neck down through my back.

"What then?" I ask, trying desperately to use our conversation as a distraction from my body's embarrassing reactions to Jasper's touch.

He begins slowly trailing his lips down the side of my face. "Just listen, Alice. I bet you can figure it out."

In my brief moments of lucidity between Jasper's tiny kisses, I do actually try to discern the deeper meaning behind what otherwise sounds like a cute love song. But my tenuous attempts at concentration become more and more hopeless the closer his mouth gets to mine.

"I give up," I finally manage to whisper, turning my head towards him. "What—"

His lips capture mine, and the rest of my sentence is forgotten as my body comes alive with desire. This kiss, too, is different from anything I've felt with him before—urgent but not desperate—fierce and tender all at once. I've learned a thing or two from the last time as well. Now I'm not afraid to part my lips and take his tongue in my mouth, or afraid to reciprocate when he allows me the same access. When he presses his palm into the small of my back, I move my hand up and weave my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, wanting him more with each passing second.

Jasper finally leans back, chuckling softly, and touches his forehead to mine. Even in the dark, I can see the intensity in his eyes.

"See, little darlin'—this song's about _you_."

I feel the heat flooding into my face and I duck my head down into his chest, not really sure whether the smile I feel splitting my face is one of embarrassment or excitement or nervousness, or some weird amalgamation of every emotion at once. Jasper laughs at me for my reaction, and hugs me tightly until the song finally plays itself out. Then, he turns off the stereo with the remote, and gingerly rolls me off of him and turns to face me on his side.

"You know, Alice," he says, his tone suddenly sober, "you don't have to meet my parents if you don't want. I'm sorry—I should've asked you first."

I shake my head against the pillow. "That wasn't it, Jazz," I say, smiling despite myself at the way that the reinstatement of that silly nickname causes him to grin. "It's just… I guess I just don't know what… I mean, are we…? Well, am I, like… your girlfriend?"

I think it's safe to assume from Jasper's boisterous laughter that my attempt to _not_ sound like a twelve-year-old girl fails miserably.

"God, Alice, is _that_ what you were worried about?" he asks when he finally calms down enough to speak. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at him, not at all impressed by his humor at my expense. He rolls his eyes and then turns away from me to lie on his back.

"Listen," he says seriously, extending his hand and inviting me back into his embrace, "shit's never gonna be easy for us—you know that. I'm always gonna feel like people are staring at me, and that's always gonna piss me off." He pauses to grimace down at his body. "Anything_…_ _physical_… is gonna be difficult for me. And sometimes it feels like we spend more time trying _not_ to hurt each other than we do just making each other happy. All of that is frustrating as hell. I hate it."

I raise my head, fully determined to stop this self-loathing nonsense before it goes too far. Before I can even open my mouth though, Jasper places a finger over my lips. "Just let me finish." I nod, and he gently pulls me back down against his chest.

"As hard as all that is," he continues softly, "I think I've finally gotten it through this thick-ass head of mine that it would be harder for me to leave you. And so, semantically at least, I suppose that makes me—_like_—your boyfriend."

I prop myself up on my elbow, confused by his equivocal adverb. "Semantically?"

Jasper smiles and runs his thumb along my jaw. "_Practically_, it means that I've never been happier in my life than I am right now, and that any day from now on that doesn't begin and end with you in my arms will be a fucking waste."

I lean down and touch my lips to his. It's surprising how natural it feels—like there was never a time when I was afraid to touch him, or a time when I honestly believed that he didn't want me. Like I've been doing this all my life—like this is what I was made for.

"I guess I answered your question, then?" Jasper asks when I finally slide back down into his arms.

I grin and close my eyes. "Well, _practically_, yes, but _semantically_…"

He laughs and begins trailing his fingers lightly up and down my spine. I know he's right. I know that there're always going to be difficulties and disappointments and frustrations. I know that this moment can't last, and that we're not always going to be as contented and euphoric as we are right now. But that one word—_always_—makes the struggle seem infinitely worthwhile.

I stay awake as long as I can, but the combination of general exhaustion and Jasper's calming touch quickly bring me to the edge of sleep. I'm almost completely gone when I hear him whisper against the top of my head.

"Alice—you awake?"

I hum drowsily against his chest. He lies still for a minute, and then sighs and presses his lips into my hair. "Never mind. Get some sleep. Goodnight."

I mutter something that I hope sounds like, "'night, Jazz," and then lose myself to sleep.

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**Youtube links for **_**Lucy**_** and **_**Here Comes the Sun**_** are up on the profile.**


	18. Touch the Sky

**A/N: It seems as though the general consensus is that one POV a chapter is ideal, so that's how updates will be from now on. I got this out in two weeks (yay!), so hopefully things can move a little faster now.**

**Thanks, as always, to my alpha, Twila. She is the therapist that assures me that cuteness is okay. **

**Stephenie Meyer still owns Twilight and its characters.

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Chapter Seventeen: _Touch the Sky_

"_We find ourselves only by looking to what we're not. You can't put your feet on the ground until you've touched the sky." _

_~Paul Auster, __Moon Palace

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**JPOV**

I wait until the second hand on my watch completes yet _another_ revolution, and then knock on the bathroom door for the third time in ten minutes.

"What're you _doing_ in there?"

I hear Alice mutter something that sounds suspiciously like 'redecorating' before the hairdryer starts whirring again, drowning out all other sound. _Hairdryer_. She's never spent more than ten minutes getting ready for _anything_ before, but tonight she's been in there for an hour messing with a fucking _hairdryer_. I swear to god, if she ever comes outta there, I'm initiating an embargo on fashion magazines. Effective immediately.

"Alice," I say, raising my voice so that she's sure to hear me over the noise, "unless you want me to violate traffic laws to get us there on time, I seriously suggest that you hurry it up."

That's a low blow, and I know it. It's taken her almost five weeks to be comfortable riding in my car, and even now she can only go for short distances without feeling trapped and claustrophobic. Obviously, threatening to engage in reckless driving is anything but tasteful, and if I weren't so worked up, I'd probably regret it. Fortunately though, one of the many things I've learned about Alice over the past few weeks is that she can hold her own against my sometimes-inappropriate sense of humor.

Right on cue, the hairdryer cuts off and she cracks the door open to smile sweetly out at me. "Jasper, unless _you_ want me to call the restaurant and request a table next to the kitchen, I _seriously suggest_ that you be patient."

_Tou-fucking-ché._

Duly shamed, I hang my head and walk back out to the living room while Alice closes the door and continues doing whatever-the-hell she was doing before I bothered her. I sink into the chair by the couch and close my eyes, breathing deeply to try and calm my nerves. Rationally, I know that I don't have anything to be nervous _about_. This is not the first time I've done the whole cheesy 'take your girlfriend out to a fancy dinner on Valentine's Day' shtick. More importantly, this certainly isn't the first time I've taken _Alice_ out to dinner. Technically, it's not even our first _date_. We've been to movie theatres and restaurants, and even an impromptu trip to the Tomb of the Revolutionary War Soldier, which happened as a result of Alice getting bored one afternoon and googling "historical Philadelphia landmarks." Up until now, everything has been laid-back and casual—completely low maintenance. But tonight, here I am: watching my fingers shake with adrenaline as I dig them into the armrest of my chair.

'Cause on the night that you tell a girl you love her, everything has to be perfect.

And things _are_ perfect, even if the meaning of the word 'perfect' has gone from being fixed to relative in my vocabulary. 'Perfect' for me was finally fulfilling my dream of tossing all of Alice's maid uniforms in the dumpster the day that she started her new job at the front desk. 'Perfect' for me was taking her shopping again and watching her get progressively more excited each time she stepped out of the dressing room in an outfit that fit. 'Perfect' is being able to hold her without restraint. 'Perfect' is being able to hold her at all.

For the first time in months, I'm able to see glimpses of this redefined perfection in my life outside of Alice as well. My bandages came off a few days ago, and even though the healing tissue on my arm is still pretty gruesome to look at, it's better than having to deal with gauze and slings and all the other crap that was part and parcel of my post-op care. The compression suit that used to cover nearly my whole body has been reduced to a sleeve on my left arm and a calf-length stocking on each of my legs. On days when I don't have PT, I spend my time at a carrel in the back of the school library, alternately working on my make-up assignments from my halfway completed spring semester, and writing fiction for the hell of it. It feels good to write again; it feels good to _think_ again. I needed to be reminded that there's a world outside of this scummy little city—I needed remember what it's like to feel small.

As much as I enjoy being a functioning member of society again, the best moments of my day are still those spent in the little bubble of space that Alice and I have jointly portioned off from the world. Sometimes, I want to stop random people on the street and ask them how they can walk past her without so much as looking at her. I want to show people the way she smiles at me, or the way she holds my hand, or the way she stands on her toes in order to kiss me and ask, _how can you not be in awe of this? How can you not appreciate the miracle you're seeing?_ Obviously though, I can't actually say any of that, so instead, I just send up a prayer of thanks that out of all the billions of people on this planet, _I'm_ the one who gets it. I'm the lucky bastard who gets to love her.

'Course, if she doesn't come out of that damn bathroom soon, I may never get to tell her any of this.

I'm seriously considering whether the risk of knocking on the door and having my ass handed to me on a platter of sarcasm—_again_—outweighs the benefit of reinforcing my sense of urgency when my phone begins ringing. I actually groan out loud as I reach into my pocket, knowing that I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with whoever's on the other end of the line. However, on the day when I finally broke down and got in touch with my parents again, it was implied any future lapses in communication would not be tolerated, and since then, my caller ID has flashed, "HOME" at least once a day. The content of these conversations is as predictable as their frequency: for roughly twenty minutes each day I listen to my mother try to convince me to come home, my father chastise me for upsetting my mother, or my sister glare audibly at me through the headset as I ask her to try and keep our parents calm until April. Needless to say, the ringtone I've assigned to my family has become about as pleasant a sound as the ringing of an early morning alarm.

I'm aware of how ungrateful this sounds. I know I should be counting my lucky stars that I have a family who loves me and cares about me and who would drop everything just to be with me if I'd let them. And really, I _am_ appreciative of their concern, and I've told them so, sincerely, many times. But there's so much other crap that I'm trying to figure out right now, that having to face my parents on top of that would just be too much, too soon. I need time to sort through the remainder of my Kübler-Ross bullshit before I see myself reflected in their eyes. I need the space to figure out who I _am_ before I try to reconcile that with who I _was_.

I've explained all this to my family _ad nauseum_. To assure them that I'm not moping around being a _complete_ drain on society, I filled them in on the make-up work I've been doing and my tentative plans to re-enroll in university next year. I even _voluntarily_ offered up information about Alice, though, for the sake of my sanity, I may have intentionally downplayed the actual nature of our relationship. Fortunately, the knowledge that their son isn't a total social recluse seems to have placated my parents for the time being. They may not agree with my self-exile, but they seem willing to go along with it for now—provided, of course, that I participate in our requisite daily phone calls. However, given the fact that I just spoke with my father _this morning_, it seems that one tense, almost comically awkward conversation a day just isn't enough for the Whitlock family.

I grudgingly flip my phone open and hold it to my ear. "Hel—"

"Dude, what're you doing March 27th?"

I relax minutely when I recognize the thunderous yet amiable voice of my once-former-now-current-best-friend-cum-brother-in-law. Emmett is the exception to my aforementioned trepidation about communication with my family. Unlike my sister or my parents who will conduct their phone calls exclusively in the form of questions (_Why don't you want to come home? Do you have any idea how much you're worrying your mother? Why are you so stubborn?_), he's perfectly content to carry an entire conversation by himself. He's also one of the few people I know who's entirely unable to hold a grudge, and as such, is the only member of my family to whom I've not issued a direct apology. I can't be sure, but I suspect that his abrupt subject-changes whenever the topic is broached stem from the fact that, out of all of the people I've hurt, Emmett most understands what it's like to really and truly fuck up.

I'm certain that there were times during Rose's pregnancy when Emmett wished that people would quit thinking of him as 'that dumbass who knocked up his girlfriend' and treat him like a normal twenty-year-old. Hell, I bet there are _still_ times when he wishes for a return to the life he had before he met my sister—which is saying a lot considering I've seen how much he adores her. But even though I was too immature, or selfish, or stupid to be there for him when he needed me most, our respective bad decisions have now led us to a bizarre mutual understanding. I may never fully forgive him for not being more careful with my sister, and he may never be able to look at the awkward curvature of his nose without wishing he could repay me that blow, but our friendship has somehow become more important than any of that. I didn't realize it until the day we started talking again—and I'd never admit this to anyone besides myself—but truth is, I've really missed the goofy fucker over the past few months. A lot.

A quick glance down the hallway confirms my suspicions that Alice has no intention of leaving the bathroom in the immediate future, so I turn my attention back to the phone, hoping that the conversation will distract me from the fact that we're gonna lose our reservations in roughly fifteen minutes.

"Hey, Emmett."

"Yeah, yeah, hi. Listen—Rose and your parents are taking Chip to see your uncle in a few weeks, and it's been casually mentioned to me—several times, in fact—that my presence is not required."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Em," I offer, just in case his pride has been wounded by this not-so-subtle un-invitation. Really, the exclusion has nothing to do with him. It's just that my mom's brother isn't exactly the best host in the world—unless of course early-morning fishing trips or sitting in a cramped living room watching SportsCenter is one's idea of fun. In his defense though, I bet even Martha Stewart would have a difficult time entertaining people in the middle of Bumfuck, Washington. Rain and mud and moss are hardly conducive to good times.

"Worried? Hell, I'm _relieved_. Rose and your mom love dressing Chip up and parading him around like he's the spokeschild for Babies 'R Us, but I can only take so much of that crap before I start wanting to bash my head against a wall. I'm sure your uncle's great and all, but I fully intend to skip any and all non-mandatory family events until Chip goes through his awkward pre-pubescent phase, and is no longer a walking photo op."

I can't help but laugh at Emmett's exasperation even as I sympathize with him. Rose comes by this particular compulsion honestly, at least. My parents have more sickeningly cute pictures of the two of us in matching Oshkosh and Bennetton than I really care to think about.

"So anyway," Emmett continues with renewed buoyancy, "I was thinking that if you're free that weekend, I could fly up there and hang out."

_Crap. So much for uncomplicated conversations._

If I'd been paying closer attention, I'm sure I could have figured out where this was headed as soon as I answered the phone. As a rule, Emmett doesn't plan. He's one of those people who's equally at ease among strangers and friends, and as such, is content to just follow the crowd, guided by the philosophy that wherever there are people, there's bound to be entertainment. This is a phenomenal trait to have in a friend when, say, one finds oneself without something to do on a Friday night. However, this is a quality which should possibly be considered with more scrutiny when said friend expresses interest in dating one's sister. At any rate, Emmett's sudden interest in a specific date so far in the future alerts me that someone else—most likely Rosalie—was the mastermind behind this plan. Honestly, I don't know whether to be pissed or touched by her scheming. Of all my friends and family, Emmett is probably the person I'd feel _most_ comfortable seeing so soon. But still, 'comfortable' is a highly relative term.

"Um, I dunno…" I hedge, hoping that Emmett's usual penchant for avoiding awkwardness will cause him to drop the subject for the time being. 'Course, my luck's never been that dependable.

"_C'mon_, J," he whines. "I haven't been to a game in _forever_. Philly's playing Carolina on the 27th—tickets are on me if you let me crash with you. I'll even settle for the couch if you're still renting my room out to that chick."

"_Alice_," I correct instinctively.

Emmett snickers into the phone. "Right—_Alice_. _Sor-_ry."

He and I have bantered about girls enough in the past that I can be fairly certain of the trajectory of this exchange: he'll make a mountain out of a molehill and suggest that I'm sleeping with Alice (which, I guess _technically_, I am), I'll claim that things aren't like that between us (which they _are_), and then he'll insist that I send him a picture of her so that he can extend his "seal of approval" (which I won't). Or at least, that's what _would_ have happened if Alice hadn't chosen this exact moment to finally emerge from the bathroom. The instant I see her, the entirety of my universe condenses so that it become shrink-wrapped perfectly to the shape of the woman walking towards me.

I've always wanted her—even when she was just a voice echoing through my wall, I wanted to hold her against me and feel her chest rising and falling beneath my arms. I've wanted her so badly, in fact, that over the past few weeks, I've slowly begun to steel myself for the inevitable and variegated difficulties associated with taking our relationship to the euphemistic Next Level. Those are the things you think about when you find that your own happiness suddenly depends entirely on the happiness of another. That's affection; that's love.

This—the way I feel looking at Alice now—_this_ is _lust._ This is desire. This is wanting to pull her haltered straps over her head and run my fingers through her newly spiked and styled hair. This is wanting to slide her dress slowly down her body and kiss every inch of her skin as it becomes exposed. This is wanting to see her in those incredible black heels and nothing else before turning off the lights and crawling into bed with her. This is wanting to taste her. This is wanting—

"_Jasper!_"

The forgotten phone in my hand actually vibrates with the force of Emmett's voice. Even Alice must hear his shouting, 'cause she laughs as she perches herself on the armrest of my chair.

"I'm ready to go now," she whispers, bending down to press her lips to my temple.

_Jesus… is she fucking __teasing__ me?_

"Jasper, what the _hell's_ going _on_ over there?"

I swallow deeply and turn my attention to the phone, though my eyes never leave Alice. "N-nothing Em," I say, groaning internally at the embarrassing tightness of my voice. "But I, uh… I gotta go now."

"Dude, wait! You didn't answer my question—can I come or not?"

I hear myself answer him, but my words seem to slip through my mouth without ever registering in my mind. Given the fact that Emmett starts rambling excitedly about plane tickets and courtside seats however, I guess I must've given him the go-ahead to fly out here in March. Some part of me is vaguely aware that this arrangement should probably worry me. But right now, all I can think about is the heart of pale skin outlined by Alice's collarbone and the deep V of her neckline, and so before Emmett's egregious run-on sentence gets any longer, I mutter a quick, "talk to you later, k?" and then hold down the _End_ button until my phone shuts completely off. Rules be damned—I've had enough family bonding for one evening.

"That wasn't very nice, Jazz," Alice says, shaking her head in mock disappointment.

I shrug and reach over to cup the back of her neck. "He'll get over it."

I've managed to screw up pretty much everything when it comes to Alice, but finally, _finally_, I must be doing something right, 'cause when she smirks down at me now, her whole body radiates the purposeful self-assurance of someone who knows that she's desired. I pull her face down towards mine, and my lips crash against hers hungrily, clumsily, like I haven't had five weeks' worth of practice at this. Her wet-warm taste is all mint and lipstick, and no matter how deeply my tongue slides into her mouth, I never seem to be able to get enough of her. I shiver as I run my hand down the bareness of her back, and I'm seconds away from pulling her down into my lap when she ends our kiss with a soft, breathless giggle.

I groan and drop my head against the hollow at the base of her throat, which causes Alice to laugh again as she runs her fingers through my hair. "I guess this means it was worth the wait, then?"

I'm so distracted by the steady _whooshing_ of her racing pulse that it takes me a few seconds to figure out what she's talking about. But then my eyes focus on the clock above the TV, and I realize that our already limited time has now been cut in half.

I kiss her neck lightly, and then sit back and playfully narrow my eyes. "I'll let you know in seven minutes."

The restaurant is only two miles away, and under normal circumstances, we'd have no trouble getting there in our allotted timeframe. But driving with Alice is tricky at best. Sharp turns and quick accelerations are out of the question, and whenever possible, I'll yield right of way at intersections until all the other cars have passed. If she feels trapped or pinned down, she's more likely to panic, so no matter the weather, we always drive with the windows open. Unfortunately, this same fear means that she also feels paradoxically safer _without _her seatbelt on. I've made a little progress in getting her to wear it, but until she's using it consistently, ten miles under is the fastest I'll go.

Despite all of these measures, she still trembles in the seat next to me the entire time we're driving. I hate knowing that _I'm_ making her suffer—that if I'd just pull the car to the side of the road and cut off the engine, she wouldn't be so scared. Sometimes I almost wish that she'd find a therapist to help her through this shit, 'cause it's just fucking _brutal_ for me to have to watch. But every time we reach our destination, she smiles over at me and says, 'it's getting easier.' Her hope is infectious; we always try again.

Due to a fortuitously atypical lack of traffic (and my decision to skip the seatbelt debate entirely), we do, in fact, make it to the restaurant by 7:00. I've eaten here before, so I'm not particularly awe-struck by the elaborate black and gold design of the restaurant's interior. Alice, on the other hand, clutches my arm and gasps when she walks through the door, a wide-eyed smile playing at her lips. Her reaction is enough to make me momentarily forget the inevitable insecurity that accompanies the prospect of spending the next hour and a half in a packed dining room. Of course, this self-consciousness returns as soon as the hostess calls my name and I have to awkwardly limp behind Alice through dozens of happy, _normal_ couples to get to our table. By the time we finally take our seats, I feel like every pair of eyes in the goddamn restaurant is fixated solely on me.

_I fucking hate this stupid, commercial holiday._

"Stop that."

I look up in confusion to see Alice scowling at me from across the table. "Stop what?"

"You're… _thinking_," she accuses, folding her arms petulantly across her chest.

I roll my eyes. "Sentience _is_ a byproduct of humanity, Alice."

Her frown deepens as she levels her gaze. "Yeah, well, you can use all the big words you want, Jasper, but I _know_ that look—you're thinking about something ridiculous."

She's right, of course. I know that if I don't try'n stop this now, I'll probably ruin the whole evening by becoming too self-involved. Forcing myself to concentrate only on Alice, I take a few deep breaths through my nose and will myself to relax back against my chair. Finally, when I can no longer feel the weight of a hundred imaginary gazes, I smile apologetically and reach across the table to take her hand.

"Look," she says, returning my smile and twining her fingers with mine, "we're all dressed up, at a fancy restaurant, on _Valentine's Day_. Shouldn't we be talking about something cheesy and romantic?"

"If you want," I say, chuckling at her bluntness. She continues to look at me expectantly, so I grin and shrug my shoulders. "Well, I suppose I should probably tell you how gorgeous you are, but I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

Pink floods into Alice's cheeks and her lips part in mild but genuine surprise. "You think I look gorgeous?"

"No," I qualify, all traces of teasing gone from my voice, "I think you _are_ gorgeous. Always. No matter what clothes you have on or how you fix your hair, you will _always_ be gorgeous, Alice."

She furrows her eyebrows, so I quickly lean forward to meet her gaze before she can misconstrue my words as a backwards slight of all the preparation she put into this evening. "But tonight…" I continue softly, feeling the blood rush to my own face in anticipation of what I'm about to say, "tonight you _look_… _hot_. And yes Alice—it was _absolutely_ worth every fucking _minute_ of the wait."

Alice bites down on her bottom lip, which of course does absolutely nothing to prevent a beaming smile from spreading across her face. "You know," she says quietly, averting her eyes and using her free hand to fiddle with her silverware, "you look pretty good, too."

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and lean back in my chair. "_Now_ who's being ridiculous?"

"Honestly_,_" she insists, reaching up to pinch the sleeve of my sweater between her fingers. "I've only ever seen you in sweats and jeans. This is nice—I like it."

For once, I suppose I can see her point. Big, bulky clothing is great for hiding things like bandages and scars, and has thus become a staple of my wardrobe since the fire. Such attire is hardly acceptable when dining at the nicest restaurant in the state however, so yesterday, Alice spent the whole evening digging through the dusty corners of my closet until she managed to find a grey sweater, a collared shirt, black pants, and leather boots that she deemed appropriate. Actually, her exact words were, "I _guess_ this'll work," but whatever—no matter how you look at it, what I'm wearing now _has_ to be better than a stained UPenn sweatshirt and holey jeans. Even I can admit to that.

I shake my head, but raise her hand up and press my lips against her fingers. "Right, well, remind me to thank my fashion consultant sometime."

Alice smirks and squeezes my hand. "Consider her thanked."

The cool fire that always accompanies our touch swells ubiquitously as I run my thumb over her skin, and I just fucking _know_ that this is my moment—that there will never be a better time for me to tell her that I love her. And I'm _ready_ to do it. It might've taken me seven damn months, but I'm _finally_ ready to get it out in the open and be able to say it freely whenever I want to. But Alice and I have an abysmal track record when it comes to dining and intimate moments, so of course, our waiter chooses this _exact_ instant to walk up to our table and begin reciting the evening's specials. My moment passes, and what should've been a heartfelt declaration of love becomes a vapid discussion about the difference between 'rare' and 'well done.'

_How fucking appropriate._

I spend the rest of the meal trying to anticipate when my next opportunity might present itself, only half listening as Alice talks animatedly about her new job and her upcoming art classes. I do, however, lend my full attention to the part of the conversation where she mentions getting rid of Emmett's bed and turning her former room into an art studio. The idea itself is fine, but the designation sounds a little too… _feminine_ for me, so Alice suggests that we move my desk and bookshelf in there as well and call it a study. Compromise reached; problem solved. Too damn bad interior design is about as romantic as a trip to the fucking dentist.

By the time the waiter places our check on the table, I've completely abandoned my plan to introduce the topic at dinner. Instead, as I stand just inside the restaurant's entrance, holding Alice's coat while she uses the bathroom, I begin trying to figure out the best way to tell her once we get back to the apartment. I'm weighing the respective merits of a grandiose speech and a simple repetition of the only three words that really matter when I feel a set of fingers wrap around my biceps.

"Jasper?"

Every muscle in my body tenses when my mind matches a name to the voice speaking at my elbow. I no sooner think the word _Charlotte_ than I feel her arms wrap around my neck and her body slam against mine. Even if I'd been prepared for this reaction (which I suppose I should've been, considering the fact that overenthusiastic hugging is pretty much Charlotte's standard greeting for friends and strangers alike), I never would've been able to catch her. As it is, the added and unbearable strain of her weight causes my knees to buckle, and it's all I can do to keep us both from falling as I crash backwards into the wall.

In this moment, I don't care that she's my friend; I don't even care that every remnant of distilled Southern honor I have within me is cautioning me to exercise restraint in the presence of the fairer sex. I fucking want her _off_ of me _now_, and I'm prepared to do whatever I need to in order to make that point. The plan, insofar as the panicked thoughts running through my head can assume such a moniker, is to shove her. _Hard_. Fortunately for both of us, she realizes her mistake and releases me before that particular scenario has a chance to play itself out.

"Oh my god," she says, covering her mouth and backing away from me like I've just told her I'm infected with the goddamn Ebola Virus, "I'm _so_ sorry. I completely forgot. Are you okay?"

I nod tersely and push myself off the wall. It's true—physically, at least, I'm fine. I'll probably be sore tomorrow, but I'm past the stage where every single touch or movement causes instantaneous pain. Emotionally, however, I'm suffocating in a fucking vacuum of shame and anxiety. Charlotte is staring at me with that half-horrified, half-elated expression of someone who's just seen a loved one raised from the dead. She looks pleasantly surprised to see me now, but from the way she's rubbing her hand against her thigh, I wonder how many times she'll have to shower tonight before she feels cleansed of my decay.

"Holy _shit_—Jasper?"

_And now my one-man freak-show has an audience of two. Fucking perfect._

I shove my left hand in my jacket pocket and force myself to acknowledge the two people now standing in front of me. "Hi, Peter," I say, nodding at the dark-haired man at Charlotte's side.

It doesn't escape my attention that neither of their gazes can stay fixed on my face. Instead, they keep stealing quick glances down towards my body, searching for visual confirmation of the charred, disfigured images that the news of the fire surely conjured in their minds. I grit my teeth and look desperately towards the bathroom, shamefully considering whether or not I could just bolt now and send Alice a message once I'm outside telling her to meet me at the car.

"So, how are you, man?" Peter asks before I reach a decision. "We haven't seen you since—I mean, we haven't seen you in ages."

"Fine," I answer automatically, well conditioned from all the conversations I've had with my parents over the last few weeks. "How about you?"

"We're good," Peter says, smiling at me tentatively as he wraps his hand around Charlotte's waist. This small gesture is enough to make me glad that I didn't actually shove her earlier—Peter is by _far_ the more reserved of this couple, but he wouldn't hesitate to kick my crippled ass six ways from Sunday if I ever dared to lay so much as an ill-intentioned _finger_ on his girlfriend.

"Where've you _been_?" Charlotte asks, her eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern. "We've tried calling and we've been by your place a few times, but you're never around."

I frown and shrug my shoulders. I know that Peter and Charlotte were among the many well-intentioned visitors who knocked on my door for weeks after I'd been released from the hospital. I'm also sure that at least one of the dozens of get well cards I tossed into the dumpster the day I got home was signed, 'P+C.' But I'm just as unable now as I was then to accept the humiliation of being put on display, so I can't for the life of me feel guilty about neglecting our friendship. Maybe it's selfish—but right now, being left alone to navigate my own path through recovery is the only way I can stay sane.

Charlotte opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets a word out, I feel a small, familiar hand touch my back. "Ready to go?"

_Alice. Thank fuck._

Her voice is forcibly bright, and the almost imperceptible worry I see in her eyes as she smiles up at me lets me know that she understands what's going on here. She takes her coat from my hand and turns to face my confused friends.

"These are friends from school," I say, taking a small, cowardly step behind her, like her tiny little body can shield me from their stares. "Peter, Charlotte—this is Alice."

Alice shakes Peter's hand and gracefully receives Charlotte's customary hug before quickly buttoning up her coat. "I'm sorry I have to drag Jasper away," she says, winking conspiratorially at Charlotte as she finishes the last button. "I'm sure he'd rather catch up with you than sit through _Confessions of a Shopaholic_ with me. But that's what he gets for letting me make the plans tonight, right?"

While it's true that Alice and I _have_ discussed this particular film before, the conversation mainly revolved around the travesty of the ridiculous title. This is her covering for me—she's _lying_ for me—and it's completely unnerving to know that this may well be the first deliberate lie she's ever told. I grimace and look down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze.

"Oh, of course," Peter says, his trusting tone indicating that Alice's fabricated excuse has served its purpose, "I didn't know you were in a rush."

I credit Alice's presence for the fact that Charlotte makes no move to give me another hug as she says goodbye. "Now that I know you're around, J, we should hang out sometime. You still have the same number?"

I want so badly just to lie and say yes. But Charlotte is tenacious, and now that she's seen me again, I know that she won't give up on me so easily. I sigh and shake my head. "No, but I have yours. I'll call you."

"You'd better," Charlotte says, glaring at me before turning to Alice and smiling. "Nice meeting you, Alice. Goodnight."

Despite the fact that my every instinct is screaming at me to get out of this place as fast as I can, I force myself to walk slowly towards the door, hoping that the exaggerated casualness will at least partially hide my limp. Once outside though, I move quickly, even doing a pathetic little skipping thing with my right leg in an attempt to reach my car faster. I hear Alice's heels clicking rapidly on the sidewalk, but that's the only indication I have that she's keeping pace with me. We don't touch; we don't speak—I'm so fucking embarrassed and ashamed and angry and guilty that I can't even look at her. For the first time in weeks, I want nothing more than to be alone.

Fortunately, the further we get from the restaurant, the clearer my thoughts become, and by the time we reach the parking lot, I'm composed enough to realize that I probably have no business getting behind the wheel of a car right now—_especially_ not when my passenger is a seatbelt-less Alice.

I lean against my car and take a deep breath. "I shouldn't drive."

Even in the dim lamplight, I can see the relief that washes over Alice's face. She looks around the parking lot for a minute and then nods her head. "C'mon—I know somewhere we can go."

It turns out that Alice's 'somewhere' is Rittenhouse Square, a small park about a block away from the restaurant. I follow her silently along the paved pathways, letting the cool night air clear my head. At some point, I feel Alice's fingers brush against mine, and when she reaches for my hand, I let her take it. By our third pass through the center of the square, I hardly feel panicked at all anymore, and when we come across a wooden bench just inside the park's perimeter, I sit down and pull Alice gently into my lap.

"I'm an ass," I say, resting my forehead in the space between her shoulder blades.

Alice turns carefully and lays her head on my shoulder. "No, driving me home when you were angry would've been being 'an ass.' This is you being nice."

_So, according to her, my 'nice side' is when I make her sit outside in the middle of winter while I sort through my own fucked-up inner demons? Great._

Alice puts her hand on my chest and tilts her head up to kiss the underside of my jaw. "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing _happened_," I say, laying my cheek on her head. "It was just… _hard_. I mean, obviously, I knew I'd have to see my friends again at some point, but…" I pause, not really knowing if I can explain why it was so _difficult_ to see Peter and Charlotte so soon.

"You wanted it to be on your own terms," Alice finishes matter-of-factly.

I relax a little more and hug her closer. "Exactly. It's different with people who knew me before. They have this… _image_ in their minds of who I was, and what I should look like, and how I should act, and I'm just… not that person anymore. And I'm kind of almost okay with that," I add quickly, before she can accuse me of thinking 'ridiculous thoughts' again. "But… I guess I need a little more time."

Alice nuzzles against my neck. "I know I didn't know you from before, Jazz, but I think you're better the way you are _now_."

I shrug my shoulders. "In some ways, maybe. But c'mon, Alice—physically, nothing is ever _better_ once it's been scarred."

"That's low, Jasper," she mumbles, reaching up to rub her fingers along the raised, jagged scar that runs beneath the hair behind her right ear.

I pull her hand down and press my lips against the spot she'd just been touching. "You know what I mean."

Alice snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. "Double standard aside, you're still wrong."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, I'll bite—how, exactly, am I wrong?"

"Give me a minute to come up with an example," she says, crinkling her nose as she thinks. Finally, she lifts her head, smiling. "All right, I've got a good one—look up."

I tilt my head back to look at the black expanse of sky above our heads. "Yeah… and?"

"Well, now try to imagine it _without _the stars."

I blink once, twice, letting the full implication of her metaphor sink in as I gaze at the undeniably beautiful and imperfect sky. And then I just fucking _lose _it. The hysterical laughter comes out of nowhere, shaking and rocking my body so violently that I have to hold onto Alice to keep her from falling out of my lap.

"That… may be… the corniest thing… I've… ever heard," I manage to choke out as I gasp for breath.

Alice narrows her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me. "Yeah, well, I never got my turn before. Besides," she continues, reaching up to touch the smile on my lips, "it worked."

Eventually, the sound of my laughter stops echoing off the trees, and the park reassumes its oddly comfortable silence. I feel Alice beginning to shiver in my arms, and, to be honest, I'm starting to get pretty cold myself. But neither of us makes a move to leave. Instead, she lays her head back on my shoulder, and I wrap both my arms around her in an effort to keep her warm.

"Jasper?" she asks softly—almost secretively—like she's afraid that if she speaks too loudly, the wind might steal the words from her lips and carry them away.

"Yeah?"

"You know I love you, right?"

I shut my eyes and drop my head down against hers. I did; I knew this. Even though she's never said the words, I've seen them in every look and felt them in every touch. But actually _hearing_ her speak them aloud… this is the single most extraordinary feeling I've ever known.

"Yes," I say, tightening my hold on her until I'm sure that, even through our coats, she can feel the erratic, feverish beating of my heart. I laugh and kiss the top of her head. "Would you believe that all this time, I've been trying to tell you the same damn thing?"

Somehow, Alice struggles out of my grasp, and turns to face me. She tilts her head to the side, and one corner of her mouth lifts into a smile as she looks into my eyes. "Yes," she says, leaning in to press her lips to mine. "I knew."

For the second time tonight, I lose myself in her, letting our joined lips and hands and hearts become everything that I am. And in the gasping pauses between our kisses, we say 'I love you' again and again. Sometimes we actually use the words, but for the most part, we stick to the silent language we've been carefully crafting for ourselves all along.

I cup the back of her neck and tangle my fingers in her hair.

_I love you._

She places her palm on my chest and lays her head on my shoulder.

_I love you._

We hold each other on a frigid park bench, and watch as our frozen breaths coalesce against the pale light of the fractured sky.

_I love you, too.

* * *

_**The restaurant where A+J (The Prime Rib) is real, as is Rittenhouse Square. Both locations can be found on the TMD map that I have linked on my profile.**

**Twila and I came up with Jasper's outfit long before the New Moon trailer came out, which may, in fact, make us both Alices. **

**The forum for this story on Twilighted is awesome. Come hang out (link on profile).**

**Oh yeah, and... please feel free to 'silently' express your love for A+J by reviewing :-)  
**


	19. Found

**A/N**: Sorry for the delay... again.

Many thanks to the incomparable Twila for her help on this chap--especially her help with the opening two paragraphs, which contain as many of her words as mine.

Another round of thanks to philadelphic for leaving the review that sent TMD over 1K. My gratitude to all the other reviewers who, ya know, made that possible.

I also owe a ton of thanks to algonquinrt for rec'ing this story pretty much everywhere. If you're one of the, oh, two people not currently reading Mr. Horrible, please do yourself a favor and go read it now.

And yeah, Stephenie Meyer? She still owns Twilight.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: _Found  
_

"_For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place…"  
~Samuel Beckett, __The Unnamable_

_

* * *

_

**JPOV**

_My parents thought it was about the discipline. I'd jog up the drive each morning, my shirt drenched and my chest heaving, and they'd meet me at the front door with smiles on their faces 'cause my structured commitment to exercise apparently demonstrated 'remarkable determination and strength of character.' They believed that the hour I spent running through dry fields and across shallow creeks was indicative of a precocious self-governance. For them, my innate desire to impress and succeed was what drove my feet forward, forward, while the rest of the world was lost in quiet dreams._

_And I let them think that, 'cause it was easier than explaining that for me, it was about the isolation. It was about_ becoming_—about the sunlight that rose up out of the fields and became part of me, and the sweat that dripped off my skin and melted into the parched earth. It was about the cicadas and the mockingbirds and the susurrus of the tall, unbridled grass as it whipped gently against my arms. And it was about being free to ask the question When—When will I be able to feel what I feel now without having to run, without wanting to flee? When will I belong to something greater than this dusty road? When can I be still?_

_And Where?_

I feel Alice's fingers comb through my hair, pulling me from my thoughts. "What're you thinking about?" she asks, bending down to kiss my temple.

"My parents' house," I answer languidly, smiling and letting my head fall back against the couch. "Sleep well?"

Alice hums affirmatively, and then leans forward, staring over my shoulder at the computer on my lap. "_That's_ your _house?_"

I nod and tilt the screen backwards so that she can see better see the e-mail I've just received. For the past few weeks, my mother's been sending me pictures of the house where I grew up. Obviously, she hopes that they'll invoke a sense of nostalgia, or guilt, or some similar emotion that might make me want to hop on the next flight back to the City of Roses. But the effect has been just the opposite—distancing, alienating, as though the photographs were shot through a sepia-toned filter. The timestamp in the upper right-hand corner of each frame does nothing to quell this strange sense of unfamiliarity. How long has it been since I've thought of this place as my home?

Alice moves around the couch and sinks down next to me, tucking herself beneath my arm. "Do you think you'll ever go back?" she asks, voicing my own thoughts.

I shrug. "Maybe to visit. But I don't think I can see myself living there again."

"What about all that 'plantation, aristocracy, _Gone with the Wind_… stuff'?" she asks, causing me to smirk down at her when I recognize the slightly cleaner version of the words I once used to describe my family. "Doesn't that come with, you know… responsibility? Obligations?"

Again I shrug, and then turn my attention to the anachronistic, whitewashed house still filling up my computer screen. "I think my father realized I wasn't going into the family banking business when I started quoting _Merchant of Venice_ every time he brought up the CPA exam."

Alice is silent for a moment, most likely trying to gauge whether or not this line of questioning is upsetting me. The time when my family was a taboo conversation topic has long since passed, though—she must realize this as well, 'cause eventually she looks up at me and asks, "Isn't that like, grounds for disinheritance or something?"

I snort and shake my head. "You've been reading too many romance novels, Alice—that kinda thing doesn't happen in, you know… twenty-first century_ America_. Maybe he was a little disappointed, but it wasn't what I wanted, so he got over it. 'Sides," I say, reaching up to smooth a lock of her hair behind her ear, "Emmett's been working for my father for a couple of months now, and from what I understand, he's actually pretty good at whatever the hell he does. No one's really said anything about it to me, but I think part of the reason he's so eager to come back to school and get his degree is 'cause he's being groomed to take my father's place someday. So, I guess the business'll still be staying in the family in a way."

Alice shoots me a small smile and drops her head back down to my shoulder, apparently satisfied that my already strained relationship with my parents is not further complicated by my chosen academic pursuits. I shut my laptop and pull her closer to me, ignoring the familiar racing of my heart as our bodies make contact. Slowly, I let my fingers slide under her shirt and skim along the warm, soft skin of her hip. I leave a trail of gooseflesh in my wake as I run my hand up her side, and the hair on my own arm stands on end as I encounter her ribs, the silky spaces between them, and finally, the smooth, subtle curve of her chest.

The first time I'd touched her like this, it'd been an accident. She was standing on a chair in the living room, hanging up the first painting that she'd completed for her art class. I was behind her, my hand on her waist to keep her steady. Later on, she'd tell me that she'd jumped off the chair on purpose, but my first assumption when I felt her wobble was that she'd slipped, so I reached up, grabbing at her—knowing that I couldn't catch her, but still trying to break her fall. I dropped my hand as soon as I saw that she was okay, but by then it was too late—I'd essentially already copped a feel, and both of our faces were red with embarrassment as we stared down at the floor. Alice finally broke the tension by giggling nervously and replacing the chair at the kitchen table, but it was hours before I could get up the nerve to look her in the eye, and for several nights, we barely touched as we lay on opposite sides of our bed.

The second time I touched her was no less awkward or fumbling than the first, though it was certainly more deliberate. When we got home from our disastrous yet somehow perfect Valentine's Day, we were both shivering violently with cold. Alice's lips were blue, and my fingers were so numb that I couldn't even unbutton my pants to change for bed. Neither could Alice undo the zipper of her dress, so we crawled beneath the covers, fully clothed, and held each other as we waited for our limbs to thaw. At first, I was rubbing her arms, and legs, and side for the wholly innocent purpose of getting her warm. But as my own body temperature began to rise, all I could think about was that fucking _amazing_ dress, and the fact that the woman wearing it had just told me that she loved me. The practicality of my touching gave way to sensuality then—each movement becoming covetous, hopeful, and tender.

Every inch my hand crept upwards that night was a question—_is this okay?_ And every time her breath hitched and then resumed, slightly shallower but no less determined, I had my answer. All the same, I was scared shitless as my fingers moved across the thin fabric of her dress, the trembling coursing through me having absolutely nothing to do with the cold. But her mouth found mine at the same time that my hand timidly reached and cupped and caressed what it sought, and the little moan that escaped her lips vibrated against me and through me and around me like a chorus of congratulations that I'd actually managed to get this right.

Unfortunately, apart from eventually gathering the courage to move my eager touches _beneath_ her clothing, the physical aspect of our relationship hasn't progressed much since that night—unless of course you count the almost comical increase in the frequency of my showers.

Our stalemate is not a question of desire. I crave her as I've never craved anything in my life. I no longer panic when she pulls my shirt over my head, or shrink away in shame when her smooth body presses against my sandpaper skin. I've touched and kissed and memorized every inch of her that I've had access to so far, and could easily pick out the scar above her hip, or the freckle just to the left of her belly button, or the leftmost point in the crown of her _unbelievably _erotic tattoo without even having to open my eyes. And—_fuck_—of _course_ I want to do more than just kiss her and paw at her like a thirteen-year-old kid on Viagra. But trying to bridge the emasculating gap between the things I _want_ to do and the things I _can_ do is highly fucking embarrassing, especially since no matter how… _experienced_ Alice may have been before her accident, she is now undeniably a virgin. How the hell do I relinquish control while still fulfilling the duties of the more experienced partner? And how am I supposed to reconcile her need with the pitiful reciprocation I'm still able to give?

_Yeah… until I figure out the answers to those questions, my adolescent groping stays entirely above her waist._

I drop my hand back down to Alice's hip and place a chaste kiss on her forehead. The quiet yet disappointed sigh that escapes her lips in response tells me in no uncertain terms that chaste kissing is a poor consolation prize for what we both really want. Mercifully however, before I can get too wrapped up in the guilt that always accompanies this mutual frustration, Alice wriggles out from beneath my arm and turns to look at me, a small, unexpected smile playing at her lips.

"So…" she begins hesitantly, her gaze flitting away from my face, "I know you didn't want to make a big deal out of today but… I kind of got you something anyway."

Even as I feel my lips purse into a straight line, I'm not exactly sure whether I'm biting back a smile or a frown. I hadn't really expected Alice to listen when I asked her to treat today like any other—in fact, I didn't even complain when she told me that she was taking the day off. Nor had I really believed that trying to ignore the day entirely would erase the memories associated with it. But I do really fucking wish that I could forget the last twenty-one March 10ths—particularly the one that occurred a year ago today. I wish I didn't remember looking out the window of a train as it barreled towards my home, so absorbed in myself that I couldn't even spare one moment of happiness for my sister and my friend. I wish I didn't remember the looks my parents gave me as I trudged through the door without even saying 'hello.' And I wish I didn't remember lying alone in my childhood bedroom, watching the clock flash 6:42pm, becoming not-teenager and not-quite-adult as my family laughed together downstairs.

So no, I'm not upset with Alice for getting me a present, especially considering that on more than one occasion, she's proven herself to be the best damn gift-giver this side of the North Pole. If I could, however, I'd change the circumstances under which the present's given in a heartbeat. But since temporal modification is not one of my talents_, _I_ have_ taken a few measures to divert both of our attentions away from my unwanted memories.

I pinch her down-turned chin between my fingers and raise her face, smiling as her eyes meet mine. "I kind of got you something, too."

Alice's eyebrows knot together in confusion. "But… _why?_ My birthday's not for another two weeks."

I take a deep breath, trying desperately to hold the smile on my face as anger flares within me. I've always harbored a hatred for the people who were in charge of constructing a life for Alice upon her release from the hospital. But when I realized that her sorry-ass excuse for a social worker had arranged it so that Alice legally turns nineteen on the anniversary of the day when her whole life was taken from her, my rage had turned murderous. I'd been halfway out the door with every intention of finding and punishing whoever the hell was responsible for that heartless act before Alice stopped me—and more than once since then she's had to talk me out of calling the hospital and filing a formal complaint. _It's in the past_, she tells me, _what's done is done_.

And, well, maybe she's got a point. But even so, there's no way in _hell_ I'm celebrating _anything_ on March 22nd. Fortunately, I know Alice well enough by this point that I'm confident I can get her to go along with my plan without rehashing the tireless argument over whether or not beating the crap out of a state employee is within my constitutional rights.

"Well, little darlin'," I hedge in my most martyred voice, "I _was_ looking forward to giving it to you today, but if you _really_ wanna wait for a few weeks, I guess that's—"

"No, we can do it today," she interrupts quickly, if not a bit predictably. "The date doesn't really matter that much anyway, right?"

There's an undertone to her voice that's both faintly recognizable and frustratingly indefinable, sort of like the unnerving sensation that accompanies déjà-vu. But before I can either question or place it, Alice is up off the couch, instructing me to wait in the living room while she gets my present. Dutifully, I do as I'm told, though in her absence, I make a quick trip to the hallway closet to retrieve the box I've stashed high up on the top shelf—well out of Alice's sight and reach. Whatever was clouding Alice's expression is gone by the time we both settle back onto the couch, and her voice is soft and low with excitement as she drops a heavy, silvery bag in my lap and urges me to open mine first.

I rifle through the tissue paper and pull out a weathered copy of one of Faulkner's lesser-known novels. "Thanks," I say, smiling at this little reminder of how well she knows me, "I haven't read this one yet."

Alice laughs and rolls her eyes. "You have no idea what it is, do you?"

"Are you questioning my Faulknerian prowess?" I ask, narrowing my eyes in mock offense.

"Actually," she says, taking the book from me and flipping open to the title page, "I'm questioning your _rare book_ prowess. See?"

She returns the novel to me and points to the words _First Edition_ that are printed above the copyright date. And then she moves her hand, revealing the scratchy, unmistakably illegible signature of the author himself.

"Holy shit," I whisper, running my finger over the faded ink, "Alice, I can't… how did you...? Holy _shit._"

"I hope that means you like it," Alice teases.

I close the book and set it carefully to the side. "I do, but Alice… I can't accept this. Jesus—it must've cost you a _fortune_."

"About that," she says, biting her lip. "You know all those checks that I give you—the ones you just store away in your closet or whatever? Now would probably _not_ be the best time to deposit them."

I've shredded each of those checks as soon as she gave them to me, so there's really no danger of her going broke. But still, there's no _way_ I can accept something so valuable from her. I mean—_Christ_—an autographed first edition? If I weren't already indebted to her for life, I _certainly_ would be now.

"Stop," she commands sternly, looking me in the eye and taking both of my hands in her own—a gesture which never ceases to amaze me in its display of both bravery and love. "What was it you told me at Christmas? 'I wanted to do this for you—can't you _please_ just be happy about it?'"

_Well, fuck. I can't argue with my own goddamned logic, now can I?_

Humbly, I lean my forehead against hers and close my eyes. "I love it, Alice; it's perfect. Thank you."

She kisses my cheek and squeezes my hand, an intrinsic 'you're welcome' imbuing her actions. We sit like that for another moment before I release her and reach under the pillow next to me to pull out her gift.

"Your turn," I say, handing over the oblong box.

She removes the yellow wrapping paper slowly, somehow managing not to rip it, and then sets it aside before lifting open the box's velvet lid. Eschewing the stereotypical female response, she doesn't gasp or squeal or burst into tears when she sees the gold chain lying inside. Instead, she gently picks it up and holds it out towards me expectantly.

"What does it mean?"

"What makes you think it means anything?" I ask, feigning innocence.

"_Please_, Jazz, I know you—there's no way you'd ever pick something like this out without first spending hours, if not _days_, deconstructing its symbolism."

I roll my eyes, knowing she has me pegged. "All right, hold this," I say, taking one end of the chain in my hand and leaving the other end in hers. She leans forward, bringing her end behind her head, and I clasp the two ends together before letting them fall back against her neck.

"I'm sure you can figure out what the heart means on your own, and as far as I know, the diamond's just there 'cause it's… you know, all pretty and shit. But this," I say, reaching for the pendant and indicating the three-cornered knot in the upper left hand corner, "well… this can represent a lot of things depending on how you look at it—'life, death, rebirth,' 'mind, body, spirit,' 'past, present, future…' I swallow and drop my eyes, feeling my face flush red. "I guess they all kinda made me think of you."

Alice takes the pendant between her fingers and rubs her thumb over the surface as she studies the design. "I'm never gonna want to take this off," she says at last, her eyes still fixated on the necklace as she curls against my side.

"So don't," I suggest, my embarrassment ebbing as I fold my arms around her. "I think it looks just fine where it is."

She grins and presses her lips to the pulse point on my neck. "Thank you, Jazz. It's beautiful."

The shiver that skips beneath my skin at her touch warns me that we're headed down that dangerous path towards unfulfillment yet again, so in lieu of kissing her back, I reluctantly suggest that we get dressed and go out for lunch. If she's disappointed, she masks it well.

At her suggestion, we end up at _Penne_—the corner restaurant where we saw each other for the first time. It's a noble hope she has—that by filling the day with positive memories, we'll have something _good_ to celebrate next year—and even if I don't have an enormous amount of faith in the practicality of its intended outcome, I'm willing to play along. While we wait for our food, Alice sheepishly recounts the story of what she'd been doing before I walked through the door that day. I've never been one to espouse the merits of fate, or miracles, or any of that other fantastical bullshit, but as I listen to her, I can't help but appreciate all the forces that conspired to ensure that the two of us were in the right place at the right time. That, at least, might just be worth celebrating.

After lunch, I take her to the Rodin Museum—a little place I'd discovered when I took an Art Appreciation class my first year for the easy credit. Thanks to a semester's worth of sleeping through lectures, the intrinsic value of the art continues to elude me; a naked man is a naked man, whether the image is cast in iron or in stone. But just by watching Alice move from sketch after sketch, sculpture to sculpture—her eyes shining with excitement and awe—I find that I get just as much aesthetic experience out of the afternoon as she. I'm sure this Rodin guy was talented and all, but nothing in the whole museum is as captivating as the girl who hangs on my arm, speaking to me in low, murmured whispers. In these moments, I see the portrait of an Alice that existed before I knew her—when art could be art without implicitly raising a slew of unanswerable questions about her past—when afternoons could be wasted in untroubled contemplation of an angle, a proportion, a shadow.

It seems impossible that I should miss a person whom I never met. But at times like these, I do.

We get back to the apartment in the late afternoon. Alice immediately heads back to our newly renovated 'study' to sketch out an idea she came up with at the museum, and I take this opportunity to make my obligatory phone call to my family. All things considered, it actually goes surprisingly well. I attribute my parents' good moods to Emmett's rapidly approaching visit. I know that they're relieved that I'm actually allowing him to see me, and are likewise comforted by the prospect of receiving a straightforward and unequivocal report from him on my 'situation.' Rosalie's uncharacteristically positive attitude likely stems from the relative familial peace that exists as a result of the visit that she undoubtedly helped to orchestrate.

Well… that and, while my family has me on speakerphone, Emmett 'accidentally' lets slip about a certain… _delicate_ article of clothing he's bought my sister for her birthday. Needless to say, our conversation ends shortly after that completely inappropriate piece of information is divulged.

Alice is still working when I get off the phone, so I suggest that we order in rather than fix the elaborate-sounding champagne fettuccini dish she'd planned to make. She agrees, and so I order pizza from the Dominos down the street, figuring that at least I'm still kinda sticking to her original Italian theme. I place a twenty on the kitchen counter, and then head to the bathroom to take a shower, leaving Alice to listen for the deliveryman.

I'm washing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the doorbell ring. Of course I think nothing of it at first, but when I cut off the water and recognize a familiar female voice coming from the living room, the sense of dread that I've been successfully fighting all day finally seeps through, taking root deep in my bones.

"So where're you from, Alice?" Charlotte asks, making me wince under the weight of her loaded question.

"Um…" Alice begins, the barely audible tremor in her voice betraying her discomfort, "I'm from here. From Pennsylvania, I mean—Philadelphia."

"Ah—and how do you know Jasper? Do you go to Penn?"

I hold my breath, and a sick, bilious feeling grows in my stomach as I await Alice's response.

"No, I, uh—you know the restaurant across from the library?" she finally says. "I met Jasper there. We're both regulars, I guess."

I grab a towel from the rack and run it quickly over my body, opting not to bother with any of the therapeutic lotions or ointments I'm meant to be using on my skin. As much as I'd like to cower in the bathroom until Charlotte leaves, Alice's tone is setting a cacophony of warning bells off in my mind. Obviously, she's got every right to be guarded about the details of her splintered past, but as far as I know, she's always answered truthfully when questioned about her life before_._ _I'm_ the one who lies—_I'm_ the one who gets nervous and never knows what the hell I'm supposed to say. So why, all of a sudden, is _she_ hesitant and tense? What the fuck has Charlotte done to her?

"So what do you do?" Charlotte asks. Leather squeaks as one of them shifts on the couch.

"What do I…? What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, you're not in school, right? So do you work? Or are you, like, taking a semester off or—oh, _there_ you are."

Charlotte's head jerks towards me when I open the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, beads of water still dripping uncomfortably down my neck and back. She greets me with her compulsory hug as soon as I reach the living room, but Alice hardly moves except to mouth the words _I'm sorry_ when I catch her eye over Charlotte's shoulder. I shake my head to try'n let her know that I'm not upset, but she drops her eyes and starts running her hand through her hair without acknowledging the movement.

_Something is definitely wrong._

"You never called me, J," Charlotte admonishes, apparently unaware of all the tension her presence is creating. "I knew it was your birthday, but I couldn't get in touch with you. So I decided to stop by."

I frown and scratch the back of my neck uncomfortably, really fucking pissed that all of this could probably've been avoided if I'd just had the balls to pick up the damn phone. "Yeah, I know," I mumble, "I guess I've been kinda busy lately. Sorry."

Charlotte rolls her eyes, obviously unimpressed by my thinly veiled lie. "Anyway, I brought presents," she says, bending down to pull a silver box from her purse. "This is from Peter."

Here, in the presentation of this simple gift (which I know to be alcohol even before she hands it to me due to the sloshing sound coming from the package), lies the monumental difference between Alice and pretty much everyone else that I know. While Alice has always given me presents in decorative (and practical) bags, the box that Charlotte hands me is neatly and impressively wrapped—complete with frilly ribbons and a tightly knotted bow—and therefore impossible for me to open without a vast amount of trouble and embarrassment. Thanking her halfheartedly, I set the present down on the coffee table, praying that for the sake of everyone involved, she doesn't pressure me to open it now. Fortunately, instead of insisting that I find out exactly which brand of cheap liquor Peter's bought me, she reaches over the side of the couch and pulls out a large picture frame, which she props up on a chair.

"And this is from me."

Part of me wants to believe that this is a joke—that there's no _way_ Charlotte can actually be _that_ dense. As my eyes roam over the collage that she's pieced together however, I realize that my friend is, in fact, a fucking idiot.

Every picture is of me, which, considering all the work I've done to _avoid_ seeing images of my unscarred youth, would be bad enough. But even worse than seeing my own impossibly bright and naïve smile reflected again and again, is recognizing the dark, female face that appears next to mine in nearly every photograph. In fairness to Charlotte, it would be difficult to find a picture of me from my first year that _didn't_ include Maria. But still—why the fuck Charlotte didn't think to photoshop my ex-girlfriend out of these pictures before framing this clusterfuck of a gift is beyond me, especially considering that Peter and Charlotte were the two of the biggest advocates for the dissolution of our relationship.

Charlotte folds her arms across her chest, evidently not pleased by whatever expression is playing out on my face. "Like I told Alice," she says meekly, almost apologetically, "I made one of these for everyone's birthday last year, but… I never really got a chance to give you yours."

_So Alice has seen this._ _No wonder she… Fuck._

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, cringing when I see that her posture hasn't shifted since I entered the room. She didn't even look up when Charlotte mentioned her name. Clearly, I've got a shit-ton of damage control to do at this point—none of which can begin until Charlotte gets the hell outta my apartment. I shoot one last desperate look at Alice, and then turn my attention back to Charlotte, not even attempting to hide the frustration in my eyes.

"Alice and I are actually about to have dinner," I begin, pointedly enunciating each word. "Why don't I give you my number, and we can catch up sometime next week?"

Charlotte, who _finally_ appears to be catching on to the fact that she's unwelcome, grabs her purse and pulls out her phone without argument. I watch as she saves my information, and then walk her to the door.

"I'm sorry, J," she whispers as she pulls her coat from the rack. "She was in _every_ picture I had of you, and I couldn't cut her out without ruining the whole thing. I honestly didn't think it'd be a big deal."

I sigh and shake my head, softening at her apology. After all, she _did_ come all the way over here to give me a birthday present despite the fact that I've basically been ignoring her for a year. "Don't worry about it, Chaz," I say, helping her into her coat, "it's nice—thank you. Tell Peter I said thanks, too, okay?"

Her lips curve into a small smile, and she hugs me goodbye before opening the door and almost colliding with the unsuspecting pizza guy whose trying to verify the apartment number on the order before he knocks. I pay the deliveryman and collect the food, and then close the door behind the only two visitors my apartment's had in months.

_Fuck… I hate company._

When I turn back around, I find Alice sitting at the kitchen table, examining the collage under the hanging light. I shove the pizza on top of the refrigerator, and then cautiously sit down across from her, trying to gauge her reaction. For the longest time, there is none—no obvious jealousy or anger for me to have to dispel. She just keeps her eyes fixed on the images of people and places that dance along the horizon of my memory like mirages, always shimmering and dissolving before I can claim them. Finally, she presses a slender finger to the glass, pinning down one of my puerile grins.

"You were happy."

Not _you look happy_ or _you seem happy_, but _you __were__ happy_, as though I'm _not_ happy now. Suddenly, the insecurity that colored Alice's voice as I listened from the bathroom makes a great deal more sense.

As if confirming my thoughts, Alice slides her finger over Maria's face, leaving a grayish streak across the glass. "You never said anything about her."

I grimace at that. What the hell was I supposed to say? 'I started dating her when she was a senior and I was a freshman 'cause her breasts had a habit of spilling outta her shirt and her lips always tasted like cherries?' 'I put up with her shit for four years because when she fucked me against the wall in the boy's locker room it made me feel like a man?' 'She had so much power over me that I followed her to this shitty-ass town in Pennsylvania even though I got into Harvard, and Berkeley, and seven other schools that were better than this one?' 'The only reason I stayed with her so long is 'cause she made me feel like I'd never do any better?'

Fuck that. There're some details of my life that she's better off not knowing.

Alice raises her hand and begins twisting a lock of her dark hair between her fingers. "She's beautiful."

"She was a manipulative bitch," I spit out unthinkingly, breaking my silence.

Alice's eyes snap upward and she tilts her head to the side, studying my face. "You didn't love her."

I shake my head from side to side. "No, Alice. I worshiped her, maybe; I idolized her. But I never told her that I loved her. I never lied."

She continues to hold my gaze as her thumb smudges circles over Maria's face.

"But you slept with her." My eyes dart down to the table.

"Yes," I admit quietly.

"More than once."

"Yes."

The scratching of Alice's nail against the glass fills the silence as she pauses to consider what I've told her. Finally, she pulls her arms back against her side and drops her chin down to her chest.

"But not with me."

I inhale sharply through my nose, my eyes and jaw and heart all clenching shut simultaneously as the hurt bleeds from her words and flows into me.

_Have I really done this? Is this my perverted reward for trying to be careful with her? In trying to ensure that everything is perfect for us, have I somehow made her feel mediocre? Inadequate?_

I reach under the table and take her hand, squeezing it until she looks up at me. "You _know_ I want to be with you, Alice. It's _all_ I want—all I _think_ about. But it's _so_ goddamned _complicated_, and I don't want to—"

"I couldn't answer Charlotte's questions," she blurts out, thoroughly confusing me with her apparent non sequitur. I raise my eyebrows and sit back in my chair, waiting for her to go on.

"When you were taking a shower," she begins cautiously, "Charlotte was asking me _really_ simple things—who I was, where I was from—and I couldn't answer her without lying. There's _so much_ I don't know, Jasper, or at least, so much that I can't remember. So… please—if I'm doing something wrong… you have to _tell_ me."

I groan and rake my hand down my face in frustration. "_You're_ not doing anything wrong, Alice. _I'm_ the problem—not you."

My admission earns me a frown and a set of narrowed eyes—a familiar gesture which warns me that Alice isn't gonna let my evasive self-admonishment fly. Sighing, I lower my hand and place it palm up on the table in surrender. "I wish it could be easy. I wish I knew that it'd be… _good_ for you. But it won't be—for _either_ of us. And I just… I don't fucking know how to get around that."

Alice tilts her head to the side, her expression contemplative but not accusatory. And as I look back at her, I can't help but wonder where the hell all of this trust came from. Virtually every crossroads we've encountered in the course of our relationship has been negotiated through argument—whether it was the first time we talked, or the first time we saw each other, or the first time she touched my scars, we always had to wage a fucking battle against each other before we realized that we were actually fighting on the same side. But now, without raised voices, without anger, without even _questions_, I've managed to lay my biggest insecurity out on the table, and just fucking _trust_ that she'll know what the hell to do with it.

And, not surprisingly, she does.

Without breaking eye contact, she pushes back from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. In one step she closes the distance between us, and then straddles my legs and sinks slowly down onto my lap, expertly avoiding placing pressure on the still-tender areas where I was burned. Even through my sweatshirt, I can feel her sharp hipbones press against my stomach as she runs her hands from my chest up over my shoulders, and when she leans forward to clasp her hands behind my neck, every curve and dip of her shape cries out against me, begging to be held. Clumsily, stupidly, I raise my hand and cup the side of her face, running my fingers over her ear and through her hair and anywhere else I can reach before finally pulling her closer and hungrily pressing my lips to hers.

My body is steel and satin at once as I let my hand wander under her shirt and up the arc of her back and over her shoulders, knowing that I'll have to stop this soon but never wanting it to end. She mirrors my movements, panting breathlessly into my mouth as she navigates the sensitive map of my chest with skilled and practiced fingers. She moans and tilts her head back when I drag my hand from the nape of her neck down to her belly button, and my hips thrust upward involuntarily when she ends a series of kisses by running her tongue over my ear.

And then she just fucking… _stops._

And _giggles._

_What the fuck?_

She places her hands on both sides of my face and leans her forehead against mine. "It might not be perfect at first, Jazz," she says, grinning shyly as she deliberately shifts her weight on my lap. "But something tells me we'll be able to figure it out."

_Ladies and gentlemen, my girlfriend is officially a cocktease._

I close my eyes and rock my head back and forth against hers as I consider her not-so-subtle point. She's right, of course. At first it might be painful, or awkward as shit, or just plain _terrible_—but we both want it enough that it probably won't be any of those things for long. This girl—everything I _have_ is hers. Why not this one last piece of me as well?

"I don't mean that it has to be tonight," she says, twisting her lips nervously.

I kiss her softly, grateful that she doesn't expect us to go from zero to sixty in one evening. "Not tonight," I agree. "But soon—I promise."

Alice smiles and then glances over her shoulder at the collage still resting on the table. "So what're we gonna do with this?"

I strain around her to see the inverted pictures, struggling to make sense of them beneath the heavy glare. I barely recognize the boy in those photos. The smile on his face is frantic, hysterical, like he's laughing at a joke he doesn't quite understand. His eyes are never quite focused on the lens—his gaze is always seeking, searching, but never quite understanding what it's looking for. Following the pattern of his face throughout the collage is exhausting, and if I stare at him for too long, I can feel myself becoming motion sick from the perpetual movement captured within the frame.

I turn back to Alice, grounding myself in the dusty brown of her eyes.

_Now is my belonging. Here I can be still._

"If Charlotte ever comes over again, I suppose we should pull it out," I say, brushing my fingers along the golden chain around her neck. "But 'till then, I think there's some extra space in the hall closet."

Alice smiles and reaches behind herself to flip the frame over, snuffing out the voices of the past against the wood.

"C'mon," she says, standing up and taking both my hands, trying to pull me to my feet. "Didn't you order some lame excuse for a pizza awhile back? I'm star—"

A loud and involuntary hiss escapes my lips, silencing her mid-sentence. Everything is noise and motion as I yank my hands out of hers and stumble backwards, upending my chair in the process. Alice freezes where she is: her arms half-extended towards me, a stricken expression on her face. Tremors radiate outwards from the pt of my stomach, crashing through me as my gaze shifts from her, to my hands, back to her, back to my—

_No. That didn't happen. I didn't—_

"Do it again," I whisper, my voice seeming to strangle itself in my throat.

Alice shakes her head and brings her hands up to her mouth. "Jasper, I—"

"_Alice_," I beg as I take an unconscious step backwards—my body at war with my mind. "_Please._"

For one interminable moment, she does nothing. But then—when my knees are growing weak from standing and my heart is growing tired from pounding and my lungs are nearly emptied of air—she walks over to me and takes my left hand in both of hers, curling her fingers into my palm. I shut my eyes. But even in darkness, everything else remains.

The strength of her grip.

The pinch of her fingernails.

The cool of her skin.

_Her_.

"Jasper?"

_Shhh, darling… I can feel you._

_

* * *

_Jasper's book and Alice's necklace are up on my profile.

The next chapter is probably going to be short, and be in both POVs. A surprising number of people have expressed their love for Emmett. He's coming--I promise. Not next chapter, but the chapter after that will be Emmettified.

Reviews are love.


	20. For You Today Yes

**A/N**: Sorry for the dual updates. The site is not working properly. Unfortunately, that means that even if you can access this chapter now, you may not be able to access it ten minutes from now. I apologize on behalf of ff . net.

I'm just gonna thank a few people and get right to it. Thank you Twila, istandcorrected, and blondie for assuring me that I could, in fact write this, and for giving me some great ideas. But especially Twila, 'cause I've been complaining to her about this chap since we started talking. Thank goodness it's finally over.

I caved and got a twitter: (at)struckuponastar. Follow me?

Don't forget twilighted forums (link on profile).

Emmett's coming next, I swear.

**Note on the format**: Chapter begins in JPOV. All of Jasper's sections are in normal font, with his dialogue appearing in italics. Alice's sections are the opposite (italic for narration, normal for dialogue). POV shifts occur whenever the narrator speaks the other character's name.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: _For You Today Yes_

"… _the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons… yes my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes... that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes…"  
__~James Joyce, __Ulysses_

_

* * *

_

I open my eyes to find her sitting cross-legged on our bed, her body backlit by the pinkyellow haze of the slow-rising sun. Her right hand moves furiously across the well-worn sketchpad on her lap, her pencil and fingers filling the otherwise silent room with sighing, etching noises as they brush against the page. Almost as though it belonged to another person entirely, her left hand rests calmly on top of mine, her thumb tracing idle circles into the rough skin just below my knuckles. She's not applying enough pressure for me to feel her yet, but the promise of feeling alone is sufficient to pull my lips into a sleep-thick smile.

Absently, she reaches up to swat a strand of hair from her eyes, and when she pulls her hand away, I see that her fingers have left a streak of charcoal across her forehead. I chuckle quietly, and she looks at me for the first time, her focused gaze softening as it meets mine. She leans down to press her lips to mine, and just as I'm deepening the kiss, she brings her hand to my face and smudges her thumb deliberately across my chin. I grunt and pull away, not even bothering to rub at my face since without a mirror, I know I'd probably only make the problem worse. She laughs and squeezes my hand hard enough for me to feel her, and I laugh along with her 'cause when she throws her head back like that the shadows fall from her face, and her eyes turn amber in the sunlight.

When her laughter dies, she ruffles my hair and resumes her work, and by the time I manage to sit up and scoot back against the headboard, she's completely lost in concentration again. Yawning, I run my hands carefully up and down the length of my legs a few times to loosen all the skin and tendons and muscles that have stiffened overnight, and then slowly straighten back up to work on my torso. I turn my body to the left as far as it will go, holding the tension for a few seconds before twisting around to the right. Only this time, the seconds tick by into minutes as my eyes wash over the inverted image that's she's sketching into the pages of her book.

For the first time in months—_years,_ even—I'm able to recognize my own face.

And it's not because she ignored my flaws. She's drawn my hair messy, tangled, and sorely in need of a cutting. She's kept my too-small ears and oddly thin lips completely to scale. She's made sure to include the scar over my eyebrow and the patch of freckles on my nose and the tiny white mark next to my bottom lip from when I had chickenpox in the second grade. And I know that if I were looking at my reflection in a mirror, or just standing alone, staring down at my body, those imperfections would be all that I could see.

But this sketch is no mirror, and I'm not alone. Now, looking through her borrowed vision, I can see the laugh lines around my mouth, and the way my smile softens the deep creases in my forehead, and the faintly awed and contented fullness in my eyes as they look up at the woman who drew them.

And seeing myself like this, it suddenly occurs to me that the real tragedy of that damn fire was not the wounds it carved into my skin, but rather the damage that it did to my eyes. Ever since that day, it's like I've been colorblind—able to view myself only through a filter of dull, angry red. But this whole time, _she's _been able to find a brightness and goodness and worth in me that I didn't even fucking know how to look for. And _god_… I want that clarity too. Everything about myself that I've been blind to, everything I've missed—I want it all back. Even if it's just for a moment, I want to be whole.

_Show me_.

Her head jerks up at my whispered words, eyebrows knotted in confusion and concern. She looks back down at the sketchbook for a moment before flipping it around and placing it in my open hand. But I wasn't talking about the drawing, and so as soon as she lets go I toss it onto the floor, the loud _smack_ and flutter of pages causing us both to flinch.

_Show me_, I say again, desperately this time, taking her hand and raising it to my face. For an immeasurable moment, I can do nothing but keep my eyes locked on hers, begging her to understand the request that I have no hope of being able to articulate in words. But then, so slowly that I don't even realize that it's happening until it's already started, she leans forward and presses her lips to the left side of my neck. I breathe deeply and shut my eyes, because even through the scar tissue, her lips are warm and soft and full. And for the short space of an otherwise unremarkable second, my scorched vision clears beneath her touch.

_Again_, I plead softly, hooking my arm around her waist and pulling her on top of me. _Please, _

—_Alice—_

show me again,_ he whispers into my ear, his hot breath licking at my neck like steam._

_And now I know that sometimes, things don't start at their beginnings. Sometimes, what you think is a beginning is really the middle of something that has been going for years and years. That's how it is when I kiss his neck again. The little blue vein under his skin goes _thump thumpthump_ against my lips, and deep in the empty cavern of my body, a wet, warm pulse begins to beat as well. And there is something old in the way his blood rises up to meet me, and in the way my body calls out to him without words. _

_Something is happening to me that I don't understand, but I want to. My god, I want to._

_So I hold his face between my hands and kiss him, because it seems to me that the moments when I've learned the most have all occurred when his mouth has been pressed to mine. Now his lips are fast and urgent, like he's trying to say every word there is at once, and I can't decide whether that great, mute cacophony tastes mostly like him or mostly like me, but either way I never want him to stop trying to say. And while he says with his mouth, I say with my hands, brushing them over his hair and his eyelids and his cheeks and leaving little silver fingerprints everywhere I touch._

_I grip the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head, and time bends and stretches around us to let me kiss the mosaic of his body slowly, carefully, even while that pulse inside of me is getting stronger and faster and louder. And every time my lips touch his skin, I think to myself, _this is when he will stop me; this is when he will take my hands in his and say, 'enough, now. Enough.' _But his eyes stay shut, and his breaths keep coming in short, heavy staccato, and his fingers grip at my shoulder tightly—not like he's leading me, but like he's being led—and so I can kiss all the way down to his hips and back up again without him ever saying, 'stop.'_ _And god when I take my own shirt off and press myself against him I can feel his heart beating in my chest, and I wonder if all bodies are made empty enough to hold two lives inside of them at once, or if it's only because I've been broken that I need antiphony behind my ribcage to feel whole._

_I drop my head down to his neck and murmur, _I need… I need…_ again and again, because of all the many words running through my head, these are the loudest. _

_He puts his hand on my waist and lays his forehead on my chest, his hair tickling my skin. _Tell me, _he says, brushing his lips against that hard, flat bone in the middle of my chest and making that pulse in me thrum louder and louder. _ Say everything.

Don't you know?_ I ask, hoping my voice carries above the sound of my panting breaths. _

—Jasper—

_don't you?_

Yes, I know what it means to need. Yes, I know what it is to touch someone and feel myself trembling with strength and weakness all at once. And yes, I know that words like _aching_ and _hunger_ and _desire_ are poor surrogates for the tightness in my chest or the fullness in my stomach or the way I'm suddenly capable of holding the whole earth in my broken hands. And maybe there've been times when this great, stupid brain of mine has made me say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and someone's gotten hurt. But there is atonement in this morning. In the surrender of these quiet moments, I find my redemption.

I turn my head and touch the swell of her breast with my nose, my lips, my tongue, trying not to cry out when her thighs tighten around my hips and the weight of her needing pins me down to the bed. But when I take her soft, pink skin in my mouth, she digs her fingers into my arms and I have to push back and whisper, _careful_, 'cause it's too strong; too much. I feel her body tense at my caution, but before she can apologize or twist away from me, I pull her close to me again and slide my hand over her stomach and across her hips and between her legs, 'cause no amount of pain could ever quiet this longing. And god, god, there's so much heat between us now; I don't know how I could've been so cold for so long without even realizing it. Not just cold, but numb—unable to feel anything but what my scars had trapped inside of me. But now the whole world is melting around me and in me and through me, and… jesus, when did she get to be so warm? And when was there ever a taste like this, or a smell like this, or a sound like the one that vibrates deep in her throat when she breathes out into my hair?

Slowly, I roll her off of me so that her back is flat against the mattress. I slide down the bed so that I don't have to lean over so far to kiss her, and then hook my thumb under her thin cotton underwear and run it questioningly along the seam. After a few seconds she deepens our kiss and lifts her hips off the bed, so I slip her clothing down her legs and drop it onto a pile on the floor. And _fuck_, I still can't bring myself to open my eyes 'cause I know what will happen if in trying to look at her I happen to see myself, and I won't ruin this. Not now. So instead of looking at her, I focus on memorizing how her body feels as I work my fingers against all the parts of her I've never touched before. And all the while her mouth keeps gasping against mine, and her hands keep moving over my shoulders and my chest and my hips, and that heat between us keeps growing and growing until I finally have to bury my neck in the pillow and groan, _god…_

—_Alice_—

it's too much.

_Too much and not enough; something more than everything. _

_If love were a thing it would be a car going fast over a sharp, steep hill. It would be that moment of weightlessness when your stomach goes right up into your throat, and you say to yourself, _my god, I'm never coming down. _Yes, it's reckless, and yes, it's terrifying, but oh… there's something to be said for flying. _

_I shift on the bed so that I'm kneeling next to his legs, and without my even asking him, he pushes his middle off the bed and lets me add his sweatpants to the pile of clothing that's already on the floor. I have to smile to myself when I look back up at him, because all this time, he's been reluctant to show me the one part of his body that—apart from one purple scar that runs from his thigh up to his ribcage—the fire never touched. And when I bend my face down and kiss the little hollow where his leg meets his body, I allow myself one moment of imagining that all his skin is white and firm and smooth, and that he was never scarred, and never in pain, and never so close to death that I almost lost him before I knew him. But when he shudders beneath me, and I feel his fingers wrap around my arm, and see the way the sunlight makes the sweat stand out like diamonds against his skin, I know that even if things had been different, they could never have been better. I would burst if there were anything more than this._

_Maybe I'll burst anyway, because when I sit up again, he's using his teeth to rip open a small, foil square. And while he hands me what's inside and teaches me how to roll it onto him, my mind keeps screaming, _doicanidoicanidoicani,_ again and again, and each time, that still-strong pulse inside of me answers _you must, you must, you must_. And for the first time I notice that his eyes are closed, and I wish he would open them and tell me that it won't hurt, and that I won't be any different a minute from now as I was when I woke up this morning, and that not all girls bleed their first time, even if none of these things are true. But instead of looking at me, he just rests his hand on my hip, holding me steady as best as he can while I move to straddle his thighs._

Careful_, he says for the second time today, his face already contorted, braced for pain. But his hand keeps a strong hold on my waist, and that pressure is all I need to be sure of what's happening to me, to him, to us, and so I let out all the air in my lungs and lower myself onto him, finishing this thing that was decided for us so very long ago._

_And now I'm glad he didn't lie to me before, because it _does_ hurt, and I _am_ different now, and I really _do _hope that both of these things mean that no one else has ever been with me like this. Oh, but his heartbeat is everywhere, and oh, that pulse in me is going wild, and oh, god… I want more. I'm so full of him that his name is in every breath I expel into the air, and still, I will always, always want more._

—Jasper—

she breathes, her voice quiet, trembling, indomitable. _Tell me… show me… please…_

If there were a way for her to know the impossible ubiquity of her own warmth, I'd tell her. If she could understand this thawing inside of me—these things that are dripping down through my veins and pooling in my gut, and sloshing all within me, god, I'd tell her that, too. But there are no words for these things, so I show her as best I can through the medium of these imperfect, ineloquent bodies: my fingers clutching the handle of her hip, my already exhausted legs working to steady her movements, my back arching off the mattress, driving her to keep moving despite the inevitable, negligent pain.

With each thrust of her warmth, this melted pool within me fills a little more, until it's teeming with all the times I turned away from her, and all the times I said _I can't_, and all the times I let the barrier of my flesh separate me from her. And in the moment when all the pressure inside of me has become not a pool, but a great, hot wave, a single memory hangs suspended behind my eyelids: My worn, sallow face, my charred, ravaged skin, my chapped lips, my sunken cheeks, my expressionless eyes staring into a hand-held mirror as I lie alone in a hospital bed, trying to convince myself that I will never be loved.

And then I feel the slightest pressure of her fingers gripping my hand, and that memory, too falls into the growing torrent inside of me, tipping the wave over its breaking point and sending everything rushing out of me at once.

As my body empties itself, my eyes flutter open, and… sweet jesus… I see _everything. _Her hand on my chest, her hipbones digging into mine, her sun-brightened eyes searching my face, and _christ_, I've never seen so much joy before. Or known it, or _wanted _it, because I didn't even know it was possible. But here it is, pouring into me, filling the empty spaces left by my numbness, my blindness, my misplaced grief. And I don't even know I'm speaking until I hear my own voice echoing in my ears, calling,

—_Alice—_

Alice… Alice… _again and again. His eyes are wide and smiling, his fingers are digging into my skin, and everything within me is alive with that drumming, fluttering pulse that could be his, or mine, or both of ours at once. And even though I'm thrilled to hear my name falling from his lips like this, what's more important are the things he doesn't say. For once, he doesn't tell me that he's sorry. He doesn't use words like, _I wish_, or _if only_, or _it could've been_. He doesn't push me off of him and tell me that he's made a mistake. He doesn't push me off of him at all._

_Instead, when his hips stop rocking against mine, he clutches me to him and kisses my forehead and my cheeks and my neck until we both start laughing 'cause all the charcoal fingerprints I left on him keep rubbing off onto me. And when I finally have to climb off of him, he uses a tee shirt to clean our faces, and hands, and bodies, and then wraps me in the sheets, and holds me in his arms, and tells me that he loves me while his fingers comb through my hair. _

_And into the silence of this halcyon morning, his heart is still strumming like mad._


	21. Forgetting Me Remember Me

**A/N**: Thanks to Twila for her fantastic alpha skills, for listening to me moan and groan, and for her help with an appropriate shopping metaphor. Thanks, also, to blondie, for letting me pick her mind and use a fair number of her words, and to ElleCC for letting me use Firesper's parents' names. And a final thanks to all the awesome twitter and lj peeps who've been so overwhelmingly supportive during my ridiculously long writing rut.

* * *

Chapter 20: _Forgetting Me, Remember Me_

"_in time of daffodils (who know  
the goal of living is to grow)  
forgetting why, remember how_

…

_and in a mystery to be  
(when time from time shall set us free)  
forgetting me, remember me"  
~e.e. cummings, in time of daffodils (who know_

_

* * *

_

**APOV**

_at a ticket counter  
tears in my eyes  
bad news  
everythings delayed  
tuesday is too far away_

----------

"You sure you don't want to come tomorrow night?" Jasper asks, frowning as he mashes his remaining Cheerios into his milk with the back of his spoon. "I'm sure we can get another ticket. It's not like the 76ers routinely sell out or anything."

I shove my last spoonful of cereal into my mouth and chew thoroughly, hoping that my attentive mastication at least partially obscures the smirk tugging at my lips. Jasper has grown progressively more restless in the days leading up to Emmett's visit, so I've been expecting some variation of this backhanded invitation for a while now. But just as I knew that he'd eventually ask me to go with him, I've always known that my answer has to be no. Whether or not he's entirely comfortable with it, Jasper _needs_ this time alone with his friend, so apart from the requisite best-friend-meets-girlfriend dinner tonight, my plan is to make myself scarce until Emmett leaves on Saturday.

"I'll be fine," I say lightly, picking up both of our empty bowls and carrying them over to the sink. "I was thinking of checking out this mall one of my coworkers mentioned to me the other day. I think it was called the Gallery or something? Anyway, I still have some money left on those gift cards you gave me, and I'm gonna need new clothes now that it's starting to warmer."

Jasper sighs and comes to stand next to me, taking the dishes from my hands as I finish rinsing them and placing them on the drying rack. "The Gallery's pretty far away. You can't walk there—at least not at night."

"Couldn't you guys drop me off on the way to the game? And then pick me up when it's over?"

"What, and just leave you there?" he asks skeptically. "What the hell're you gonna do in a mall for four hours?"

I turn off the water and turn to look up at him, shrugging. "Shop?"

Jasper stares at me blankly for a few seconds before shaking his head, his expression dissolving into amusement. "If you say so. I just don't want you to be bored. I feel kinda bad for leaving you alone."

"I'll be _fine_," I repeat, relieved that his concern is more the result of irrational overprotectiveness than anxiety over seeing Emmett again. The former worry, at least, is within my power to alleviate.

"What time are you picking him up from the airport?" I ask, wiping my hands on a dishtowel before handing it over to Jasper.

"His flight gets in around three, so we should be back here in time to pick you up after work. You still okay for dinner tonight?"

I nod. "Sure, as long as you're okay with me paying."

Jasper rolls his eyes and hangs the towel back on the refrigerator handle. "Don't be ridiculous, Alice. He's _my_ friend. I'll—"

"_Exactly_. Isn't there some sort of 'best friend test' I'm supposed to be trying to pass here? You know—making sure he likes me so that he doesn't try'n convince you to get rid of me?"

In a gesture he's only recently become comfortable with, Jasper takes my face between both of his hands and leans down to kiss my forehead. "Emmett may be an idiot sometimes, but he's not blind. You don't have anything to worry about, Alice. He's gonna like you—I promise."

I close my eyes, relaxing as the complete and unexpected warmth of his touch floods my cheeks. Truth be told, I _am_ a little nervous about meeting Emmett. At my insistence, Jasper did, finally, tell his family that he and I are more than just roommates, so at least Emmett is somewhat prepared for the situation he's walking into. But apart from alluding to the fact that we met in the hospital, Jasper has refused to relate any information about my past—or lack thereof—instead telling his family in no uncertain terms that details about my life are mine alone to divulge. On the one hand, I'm grateful for his respect of my privacy. But on the other hand…

Yeah, I still have no idea what I'm gonna say if Emmett decides to take Jasper at his word and asks me about myself while he's here. I don't really want to lie to Emmett, but at the same time, fabricating a past seems a whole heck of a lot easier than trying to explain why I can't even answer questions about my own life. Jasper, of course, has said that he'll back me up on whatever I decide to say (or _not_ say). But after all that's happened between Jasper and his family, I don't really feel comfortable asking him to participate in a lie. Conversely, telling the truth about everything that's happened since my accident makes me sound like a pathetic freeloader. And, as if options one and two aren't bad enough, option three—saying nothing at all—is worse, still. As far as I'm concerned, pretty much anything I do will end up reflecting badly on either Jasper or myself, so the best I can hope for is that Emmett isn't the kind of person who feels the need to pry. Fortunately, given that Jasper's told me Emmett's never once asked him about the fire, I stand a pretty good chance of coming out of this weekend unscathed.

Still, a little bribery never hurt anyone.

"Thanks, Jazz," I say, turning my head slightly to press my lips to the palm of his left hand. "All the same, I'd like to make a good first impression. So, dinner's on me, okay?"

"Fine," he huffs, dropping his hands down to my shoulders. "But I fully intend to make it up to you once Emmett leaves."

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. "Jasper, haven't you taken me out enough times that you can just let me do this without—"

My words are cut off by the sudden pressure of his lips against mine. "Ew," I mumble into his mouth, half-laughing and half-kissing him back. "Gross… Jasper, you taste like Cheerios."

Jasper smiles and tilts his head so that his lips brush against the hollow just below my ear. "Silly girl," he whispers, "there's more than one way to repay a debt."

----------

_long brown hair  
hes proposing tomorrow  
best friend  
james  
i promised id be there_

----------

The day passes so slowly that it almost feels as though time is moving backward. Of course, the fact that I look at the clock roughly three times a minute doesn't exactly help matters. Nor does the fact that, no matter how hard I try to focus on my work, I can't help but imagine the two most likely scenarios for how Jasper and Emmett will react to seeing each other for the first time in over a year. The first is colored by anger, bitterness, possible bloodshed, and an impressive string of profanity and name-calling that ends with Emmett getting on the next flight back to Texas. Probable, certainly, though not exactly desirable. The second, however…

Well, I guess the second scenario is what happens when, five minutes and twenty-three seconds before the end of my shift, I look up to see Jasper walk through the revolving doors at the front of the lobby, followed closely by perhaps the most intimidating man I've ever seen.

I recognize Emmett immediately from the picture I'd found pressed between the pages of Jasper's book all those months ago. Honestly though, that picture probably should've been inscribed with a disclaimer similar to those etched on car mirrors—something along the lines of, _Objects in photograph are bigger, taller, stronger, and a heck of a lot more frightening than they appear._ And, as if his disturbing size weren't enough, he even _carries_ himself with this rigid, almost arrogant self-assurance that commands the attention and respect of everyone in the immediate vicinity. Every man unfortunate enough to be within a ten-foot radius of him looks cartoonishly small and weak in comparison.

That is, every man except for Jasper.

Yes, Emmett has a good three inches on Jasper, and yes, Emmett is probably twice Jasper's size. But you'd never know either of these things from the way the two of them interact. Instead of Jasper having to crane his neck upward to be heard over the noise of the lobby, Emmett leans down to listen, momentarily creating the illusion that Jasper is the taller of the two. Likewise, Emmett always stays just a half a step behind Jasper, gracefully matching his friend's deliberate, uneven pace. The intrinsic respect that everyone in the lobby shows Emmett, he in turn shows Jasper—the consequence of which is that, despite the disparity between their relative sizes, the two of them appear as equals.

I am in love with Emmett in this moment. I haven't met him yet; I have no idea if he's a nice person, or if he'll like me, or if the two of us will get along. But still, I am in love with him. Because instead of making Jasper look small—which would've been _so easy_ given the events of the past year—Emmett's made him seem _huge._ It doesn't escape my attention that this is the first time Jasper's come _inside_ to pick me up from work. Nor am I blind to the fact that, for once, Jasper actually looks _comfortable_ with someone other than me. I can only imagine how difficult it was for Jasper to see Emmett again after all this time, just as I can only imagine the courage it took for Emmett to get on that plane this morning, knowing—as he surely _must've_ known—that the person meeting him at the airport would not be the same person he'd befriended all those years ago. But I love him for his courage. I love him for giving Jasper this moment of peace, even though neither of them seems aware of its significance. Honestly, I love him just for being here.

I clock out, grab my coat and purse from behind the desk, and then walk around to meet the boys in the lobby. Emmett hangs back and pretends not to watch as Jasper drapes his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a very loose hug. But just for a moment, I see Emmett's eyebrows furrow into something like confusion—almost as though he didn't believe I existed until Jasper touched me. The strange expression is gone as quickly as it appeared though, and by the time Jasper drops his arm, Emmett is looking between the two of us expectantly, his arms folded across his chest.

Jasper rolls his eyes and inclines his head toward me. "Emmett—Alice. Alice…" He pauses and shrugs almost apologetically, "this is Emmett."

I turn to Emmett and stand up as straight as possible as I extend my hand to him, grateful for the shoe choice I made this morning: three-inch heels that make up a small bit of the height difference between us. Emmett takes my hand with surprising gentleness, even as his eyes narrow mischievously.

"So _you're_ the one who turned my room into an art studio."

"_Study_," Jasper and I both correct at the same time, causing Emmett to laugh as he releases my hand.

"Dude," he says, turning to Jasper, "the whole room is covered in pencils and drawings and paint. There's even an easel for god's sake. Call it what you want, but what it _is,_ is an art studio."

Again, Jasper rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he mutters, taking my purse from me so that I can slip into my coat. "You're just pissed that you have to sleep on the couch."

"You can sleep with Jasper if you want," I suggest, smiling innocently up at Emmett as I finish with the last button and reclaim my purse.

For a moment, both boys stare at me wide-eyed, obviously having missed the teasing edge to my voice. But then the corners of Emmett's mouth lift into an amused smirk, causing dimples to appear in his cheeks, and making him seem more like an enormous child than the intimidating man that walked into the hotel not five minutes ago.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he says, elbowing Jasper in his side. "I'd rather sleep standing up than listen to this guy grind his fuckin' teeth all night."

Jasper punches Emmett's shoulder lightly and shakes his head, laughing. "Like you're one to talk, with your goddamn snoring. I never got _any_ sleep first year unless I had a pillow over my head and earplugs jammed in my ears."

Emmett's grin widens as he retorts with a comment about the inherent femininity of earplugs, to which Jasper responds by reminding Emmett that they had _both_ invested in the devices after being kept awake one night by their hallmate and his girlfriend (none other than Peter and Charlotte), who were apparently fond of being quite vocal during… well… let's just leave it at 'quite vocal.' It's just silly banter, really. To anyone who might be watching, I'm sure it seems meaningless, juvenile. But it's precisely the _normalcy_ of the exchange that makes it seem so extraordinary to me. In all the time that I've known him, Jasper has never willingly allowed himself to touch or be touched by anyone except for me. Even the few times I've seen Charlotte hug him, he's always had this uncomfortable, almost pained expression on his face, and has never _once_ raised his arms to hug her back.

But Emmett touched him and he _laughed_. He laughed, and then reached across a space measured not in distance, but in a year and a half's worth of silence and anger and guilt, and just… touched him back. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was nothing.

It was _everything_.

Even if I'm the only person who saw it—the only person who _gets_ it—it was everything_._

"Alice?"

Startled by the sound of my name, I look up to see both Jasper and Emmett staring down at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Um, sorry… what?" I mumble, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Jasper smiles. "I _asked_ if you were ready to grab some dinner. It's been a whole half hour since Em last ate, and the lack of food's turning him into a whiny bi—"

"Sure," I say, cutting Jasper off before another puerile battle of wits can begin. "I'm ready whenever you guys are."

I turn to Emmett, more determined than ever to make a good impression on him now that I've seen the effect he has on Jasper. "Do you have any restaurant preferences?"

Jasper groans next to me, making me instantly regret our decision to put our dinner options in Emmett's hands. But before I can correct what Jasper obviously considers to be a mistake, Emmett claps his hand lightly on his friend's back and beams effervescently at both of us.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

----------

_yes he will help me  
six o'clock tomorrow morning  
penn station  
train to philadelphia  
hurry_

----------

According to Emmett, Mikey's is the _only_ place to be on a Thursday night in Philadelphia. Perhaps if I were a man who enjoyed sports, greasy food, and an all-female (and well-endowed) waitstaff, I'd be inclined to agree with him. To Emmett's credit, he spends the majority of the meal dividing his attention between Jasper and the five flat-screen TVs littered about the cramped dining space, only appearing to notice our barely competent waitress when she (finally) comes to take our order. I've never met Rosalie, but something tells me she'd approve of her husband's total obliviousness when it comes to other women.

As for Jasper, he takes my hand as soon as we enter the restaurant and only lets go when our food arrives. The gesture is as predictable as it is unnecessary; I don't really need the constant, physical contact to feel secure in our connection. But I can't deny that his touch provides a welcome calm amid the chaos of the bar, and so when he slips his fingers from mine so that he can eat, I inch closer to him and place my free hand on his thigh, causing the corner of his mouth to twitch upward into a smile.

Despite the aura of tranquility surrounding us however, the whole dining experience feels… rather odd. I find it difficult to place my growing sense of unease until the very end of the meal, when, as promised, Jasper lets me pick up the tab. It's only when Emmett thanks me that I realize that, up until now, he hasn't said a single word to me all evening. What's more: for the brief moment that he does actually acknowledge me, his eyes are clouded with the same—confusion? annoyance?—that darkened them earlier when he'd watched Jasper hug me. I don't understand it. How can he be so engaging with Jasper and at the same time so utterly determined to ignore me?

As we walk the three blocks back to our building, I make the decision to chalk Emmett's apparent contradictory behavior up to my own misreading of the situation. After all—Jasper doesn't seem to notice anything awry with our interaction, so the most logical solution is that I've made the entire 'problem' up in my head. In fact, to prove to myself how ridiculous I'm being, I decide to engage Emmett in conversation as soon as we get back to the apartment. In theory, it's a nice plan. Unfortunately, the whole operation is foiled when, just as we walk through the door, Emmett's cell phone rings. He takes one look at the screen and then quickly excuses himself into the _study_, leaving Jasper and me alone in the living room.

"It's my sister," Jasper explains when Emmett closes the door behind him.

"How do you know?"

He shrugs. "I've been expecting her to call ever since he landed. This wouldn't be a true reconnaissance mission if he didn't have to relay information every few hours."

For the first time all day, Jasper sounds tired. When I raise my eyebrow in concern at the abrupt shift in his voice, he half smiles, and then kicks off his shoes and sinks down wearily onto the couch.

"You okay?" I ask quietly, tucking myself against his side and wrapping my arms around his middle.

He nods and lays his cheek on the top of my head. "Yeah. It's been a long day, is all."

"I'm sorry, Jazz."

"Don't be," he says, turning his face to kiss my hair. "Emmett's a good guy, and, truth be told, he's being much nicer to me than I deserve. But it's exhausting, you know—all that pent-up emotion? And on top of that, having to worry about what he's telling my sister and my parents? It's just… exhausting."

Resisting the urge to offer sympathy in the form of apology again, I simply tighten my grip around his waist, hoping that my touch provides him with the same feeling of peace as his does me. For a few moments, we sit in silence, inhaling with every breath the murky scent of greasy food and stale beer that clings like perfume to our clothes and hair and skin. Eventually, I begin to feel the tension relaxing from his body by degrees, and after another minute or so, he takes a deep breath and sighs a quiet "thank you" into my hair. I turn my head and plant a quick kiss on his chin before disentangling myself from his arms, happy that the moment of stillness has served its purpose.

Jasper grabs the remote and flips on the TV, and I take this opportunity to head into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water—hoping to rinse the lingering taste of soggy French fries from my mouth. Between the combined noise of the faucet and the television, I don't realize that Emmett's emerged from the back room until I turn off the tap and almost collide with him as we try to enter the living room at the same time. For an instant so brief I almost miss it, he stares down at me with the same severe expression he's worn twice already this evening. But before I can call him on it, he quickly takes a deep breath, composes his face, and turns to Jasper.

"Hey J—Rosalie wants to talk to you."

"Can't you just tell her I'll call her tomorrow?" he groans.

Emmett rolls his eyes and tosses the phone to Jasper who catches it easily, obviously having anticipated this response. "Tell her yourself."

Jasper frowns and shoots me a quick look, silently asking if I'll be okay alone with Emmett for a few minutes. I force myself to smile and nod, even though, after the re-emergence of _The Look_, I'm feeling somewhat less than confident in my ability to make easy conversation. My response seems to placate Jasper however, 'cause he takes a deep breath and heaves himself up off the couch.

"I'll be right back," he mutters, throwing a quick, stern glace at Emmett before making his way to his room and shutting the door.

"What was that about?" I ask, attempting to sound casual as I take my place back on the couch.

Emmett shrugs and picks the remote up off the coffee table before flopping down on the recliner. "Dunno. Twin stuff, I guess."

He scrolls through the channels so quickly that I'm amazed he even has time to register what's on the screen before deciding it's not worth watching. I can only feign interest for so long before the rapidly changing pictures start to give me a headache, so after about a minute of his indecisiveness, I pull an old magazine off of the coffee table and begin to thumb through it idly. I'm roughly halfway through an outdated article about fall fashion when the dissonant noise from the television is abruptly, unexpectedly muted. Looking up, I find that I have an audience.

"So, um… Jasper hasn't told me much about you," Emmett begins, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably.

His implied question, when coupled with his lowered voice and fleeting, nervous glance toward Jasper's bedroom door, finally clues me in to the reason behind his odd behavior throughout the evening: Jasper'd been right when he told me that Emmett's visit was, in large part, a reconnaissance mission. But now I realize that Jasper isn't the only person Emmett's meant to be observing.

"You didn't have to fake a phone call to ask me questions, you know," I say with affected nonchalance, tossing my magazine onto the table and taking a sip of my water.

Emmett grins and seems to relax a bit, like he's just realized we're privy to the same inside joke.

"Actually, I did. That boy watches you like you're made of glass, and I'm some sort of bully with a big-ass stone in my hands. He's told me a thousand times that I'm not supposed to bother you, but look—" he says, pausing to flip his hands so that they're palm-up on the recliner. "Empty. I'm not trying to hurt you, or make you uncomfortable or anything like that. I'm just trying to figure you out."

I don't know whether to smile or frown at Emmett's blunt delivery. On one hand, his no-nonsense attitude when asking difficult questions is fairly refreshing, given what I'm used to with Jasper. On the other hand, Emmett is clearly more perceptive than Jasper gives him credit for. Evasions, lies, half-truths—those obviously aren't going to cut it with him. And so, the three options I'd had this morning for responding to Emmett's questioning are now down to two: answer truthfully, or don't answer at all.

I sit up straighter on the couch and square my shoulders toward him, once again consciously trying to make myself appear taller than I am. "What do you want to know?"

Emmett chuckles and leans back against the chair. "Well, Alice… Brandon, was it?"

I nod.

"Well, Alice Brandon, what I _really_ wanna know is how a sweet girl like you got all mixed up in the mess that is Jasper Whitlock."

Even in teasing, calling Jasper a 'mess' crosses a boundary with me, immediately kicking my defensive instincts into overdrive. Without pausing to think about the possible consequences of what I'm about to do, I purse my lips into a snide smile, and reach up and deliberately rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose.

"_Well_, Emmett Hale… we're all a little messy, aren't we?"

For a terrifying instant, he just sits there—eyes narrowed, mouth slightly agape—staring at me. But then, without warning, he tilts his head back and begins laughing in great, booming peals that are almost loud enough to make me clap my hands over my ears.

"Fair enough, Pix" he says, grinning as he crossing his arms over his chest. "Round one to you."

I scrunch up my nose in mock disgust. "Pix?"

He shrugs his shoulders and opens his mouth to say something, but a loud rustling from Jasper's bedroom cuts him off before he can speak. Emmett's head immediately snaps up toward the noise, and for a few seconds, he watches the door anxiously, waiting to see if it'll open. But Jasper never does come out, and when Emmett finally looks back down at me, the hardened expression on his face lets me know that the 'easy banter' portion of our conversation is, decidedly, over.

"Jasper said you two met in the hospital," he prompts, casting a quick glance down at my right wrist. "Were you in a—I mean… did what happened to him happen to you, too?"

I drop my eyes and fold my arms across my stomach self-consciously. "No. We were neighbors."

"And what—he just started talking to you one day?"

"Actually, it was the other way around," I say, blushing as I remember my silly, relentless, _desperate_ tapping on our shared wall. "I needed someone to talk to and he… listened."

"_You needed someone to talk to and he listened_," Emmett repeats tonelessly, his words imbuing the air around us with an almost palpable tension. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, watching him clench and unclench his jaw as he stares down at the floor, wondering what exactly I've done to elicit this sort of reaction from him. And then, without warning, his eyes flicker up to mine, his suddenly frigid gaze momentarily freezing the air in my lungs.

"Do you know where I was when Rosalie went into labor?"

I shake my head slowly from side to side—not because I _don't_ know, but because the sudden antagonism in his voice has already provided me with the answer to his question. I _do_ know where he was, but _no… I don't want to hear it._

"I was here, in Philly," he continues relentlessly, coldly. "I was in the lobby of _your _hospital, trying to bribe a nurse into letting me see my brother-in-law. My son was born while I was flying somewhere over Kentucky on the world's slowest goddamn airplane. And when I was _supposed_ to be holding him for the first time, I was holding my wife instead—watching her cry because she thought she'd lost her brother for good. So let's not talk about _need_, 'kay? I'm pretty sure his family's got that particular market cornered."

"Emmett…" I begin. But the words die in my throat before I can say anything else. Because really—what _can_ I say? No words of mine will give Emmett those moments back. Nothing I can say could ever restore all the things that he's lost.

"Sometimes I hate him," he whispers, momentarily glancing away from me toward Jasper's door. "But sometimes…"

His eyes flit back to me, his hardened gaze now wide, pleading as he rambles through his confession.

"Dave and Helen told us what he looked like when he woke up in the hospital—how they couldn't even touch him—how they didn't even _recognize_ him. Their own _son_! _Christ… _I can't even _imagine_ what it would be like to not know my own—"

Emmett chokes on the last word, his eyelids shutting tightly against whatever gruesome image is flashing in his mind. "I love my wife, and I love my child," he continues, his voice cracking through his whispered tone. "More than anything. But sometimes, I look at them and all I can feel is _guilt_, because if I _didn't_ have them, then Jasper would still be… I mean—he wouldn't have all those… he never would've _been_ in those woods."

He winces, opening his eyes to stare down at his lap. Following his gaze, I look on helplessly as his right hand clenches tightly around his left, his fingers furiously kneading at his skin, as though he's trying to rub right through it to the bone.

"Sorry," he says eventually, dropping his chin down to his chest. "J was right—I shoulda kept my goddamn mouth shut."

I watch him in stunned silence as he continues to rub his skin raw, far too shocked by this sudden change in his attitude to say anything productive. Not ten minutes ago, Emmett had been _joking_ with Jasper—laughing and throwing his arm around his shoulders as though nothing had ever happened between them. So where did all this anger come from? This guilt? This shame?

The answer, I finally decide, is simple: they've been there all along. Only Emmett, as it turns out, is a very good actor. I guess he'd have to be, considering what he's just told me about the things that happened after the fire. With everyone breaking down around him, I suppose he felt as though he had to be the proverbial rock his family could ground themselves upon. I know he's played that role for Jasper—not just today, but for the past few months as Jasper's struggled to reconnect with his family via phone. I couldn't be more grateful to him for his patience over those months, or for the strength I know it took for him to come here today.

But I've seen first hand what donning a mask of bravery for the sake of those you love does to a person. Sooner or later the façade crumbles, and everything that's been churning inside of you for weeks or months or years comes crashing to the surface, threatening to drown you in the force of its wake. It's neither pretty nor easy to watch, but fortunately for both Emmett and me, I've had a bit of practice in picking up the pieces. After all, I've heard variant forms of Emmett's self-deprecation many, many times before.

"You're so like Jasper," I say quietly, letting a hint of a smile slip into my voice. Emmett doesn't look up at me, but after a few seconds his hands cease their movements, letting me know that he's listening.

"You asked me why we started talking while we were in the hospital. You'll have to ask Jasper that question if you want his side of the story, but I think, maybe, he needed to tell someone what he'd been through—what he was _going_ through—just like you. And, just like you, he couldn't tell his family because they were too close to the situation; they _were_ the situation. I happened to be the stranger on the other side of his wall, so he turned to me. And now here we are, having virtually the same conversation, only with the added benefit of being able to _see_ each other. That helps, I think."

Apparently not amused by my attempted humor, Emmett begins to work his fingers against his skin again, leaving angry red streaks across the back of his left hand. For a moment, I debate whether I should get off the couch and forcibly stop him before he can do any real damage, but I quickly decide against it, knowing that my strength is no match for his. Instead, I just sigh and straighten back up on the couch, hoping that he's still listening.

"If you told me what you did because you want me to blame you, Emmett, then you're gonna be disappointed. It's not my place to pass judgment because I _wasn't there_. But I think I _can_ tell you something that no one else can—or at least, something that you probably wouldn't believe if it came from Rosalie or Jasper or your in-laws, or anyone else who was there for all the things I wasn't."

Emmett snorts and shakes his head. "Oh yeah?" he mutters sardonically, finally looking up to meet my gaze. "What's that?"

I look into his dark, tired eyes and smile gently.

"_He's okay._"

It's not much, but I can tell from the way that Emmett's hands stop wringing that it's what he needed to hear.

"He's okay," I repeat softly, causing his tense shoulders to slump as he drops his chin back down to his chest. "And even if things aren't exactly the way they were before, they _will be_ _okay_, too. Trust me."

Emmett brings his hand up to his forehead, rubbing his temples between his fingers. "How can you know that?"

"Because I know what you expected to see when you walked off the plane today," I say, remembering the way Emmett had winced when he'd talked about Jasper's parents seeing him in the hospital. "Whatever worst-case scenario you possibly could've imagined—I've _seen_ it. But I also saw the way he was with you today, and Emmett… _that's _something I've never seen before. I don't think you really realize how important it is that you're here."

Slowly, he raises his head out of his hand, letting his scrutinizing gaze fall on me. For a seemingly unending moment, his face looks tired, defeated, and old far beyond his twenty-one years. But then, finally, he takes a deep breath, and as he expels the air in his lungs, his expression softens into that same boyish, faintly mischievous grin that I'd first seen in the hotel.

"You know," he says, his eyes shining with real emotion despite the teasing edge to his voice, "it's a good thing I'm married, Alice, or I think I'd be in serious danger of falling in love with you."

I smile at him hugely, both in relief that my words seem to have hit their intended mark, and in silent acknowledgement of the fact that I'd been thinking almost the exact same thing earlier in the afternoon.

"I don't know about marriage," I say, relaxing back against the couch, "but I hope this at _least_ means you're going to start talking to me now."

Emmett chuckles and runs his hands over his face, wiping any lingering traces of worry from his features. "You'll have to ask J about that one. I'll be lucky if he lets me within ten feet of you after that stunt Rose and I just pulled."

As if on cue, Jasper's doorknob turns as soon as his name is mentioned. He emerges from his bedroom looking more than a little pissed off.

"Here," he says, chucking the phone at Emmett with unnecessary force, "_you_ talk to her. She's actually trying to make me decide what we should get our parents for their _anniversary_."

"So?" Emmett asks, winking at me slyly before standing up and sauntering toward the back room with affected indifference.

"_So_, their anniversary is in fucking _July_!"

Even with his back to us, I can hear Emmett snickering as he walks down the hall. Jasper glares after him until the study door closes, and rolls his eyes and sinks down next to me on the couch.

"Everything okay?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

Jasper frowns and eyes me warily. "You know that was a setup, right?"

"Yeah," I say, laughing a little as I lay my head on his shoulder. "I kinda figured it out."

"He better not've made an ass of himself. I _told_ him not to bother you."

"He didn't," I affirm, shaking my head against his sweatshirt. "You don't need to worry so much, Jazz. I really like Emmett. I'm glad he's here."

His muscles relax beneath me, and after a minute of silence, he sighs and wraps his arm around my shoulders. "Yeah," he says quietly, an audible smile on his lips as they brush against my hair. "I'm glad he's here, too."

----------

_already running  
cab  
train  
bus  
plane  
im going home_

----------

"Shotgun!"

Emmett's thunderous voice echoes off the cement walls of the underground parking garage, startling more than one unlucky bystander. Jasper shoots me a quick, tense glance before composing himself and unlocking his car remotely with his keys.

"Don't be a dick, Em. Alice is getting out first—let her have the front seat."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Emmett glowering down at me as we make our way around to the passenger side of the car, so I shrug and point to myself as I smile up at him, trying to keep my tone light.

"Made of glass, remember?"

"Bullshit," he grumbles.

Thankfully though, when I open the door, he just narrows his eyes, dips his head in a quasi-bow, and then crawls into the back seat without any further argument. Admittedly, I feel awful for him when I see how he has to practically fold himself in two in order to fit into the miniscule space of Jasper's car, but as much as I wish it weren't the case, I _know_ that there's no way I could ride back there without completely losing it. After months of hard work, I'm _finally_ comfortable riding in the front seat—mostly because of all its open space and its easy access to both a door and a window. But the back seat is an entirely different kind of beast.

My face flushing with self-consciousness, I slip into the car and push my seat forward as far as it'll go.

Fortunately, Emmett seems to forget my flagrant disregard for the rules of Shotgun as soon as we're on the road. He leans forward in his seat, meticulously reciting team statistics in an attempt to explain _exactly_ why the 76ers are going to "beat the crap out of" the Bobcats. Jasper speaks up every now and then, obviously playing devil's advocate just to get Emmett riled up. It works: every time Jasper interjects, Emmett becomes impossibly louder and more animated, so that by the time we finally pull into the parking lot of the shopping mall where I'll be spending my evening, Emmett's yelling so loudly that I swear the windows are trembling, and Jasper is nearly doubled over in his seat, shaking with laughter.

_Idiots._

"I'll be right back," Jasper says over his shoulder, still chortling to himself as he throws the car into park and opens his door.

I say goodbye to Emmett, and then join Jasper in front of the car, where he takes my hand and begins steering us toward the mall entrance.

"Are you _sure_ you don't wanna come to the game?" he asks when we're about ten feet from the doors. "I _know_ we could still get tickets."

I roll my eyes and lean into him, smiling. "Are _you_ sure you don't wanna ditch the game and come shopping with me? You could really use some new clothes you know. I saw these really cute shirts online at Old Navy that I think would really look good on—"

"All right, all right, I get it," Jasper groans, holding our joined hands up in surrender. "We'll pick you up around ten, okay? Do you have your phone?"

I open my purse to fish out my cell, knowing that he won't be placated until he actually _sees_ that I have it. Finally locating it, I pull it out and hold it up for Jasper to see, only to find that he is now holding his _own_ phone in his hands, frowning down at it disapprovingly.

"Impatient bastard," he grumbles, flipping it open to read what I assume to be a text from Emmett. He takes one look at the screen and then hands the phone off to me wordlessly, shaking his head.

'_maybe u should ask her whos going 2 win 2nite' _the message reads._ 'at this rate we'll b lucky 2 get there by halftime'_

Smiling, I quickly text back, '_she says bobcats by 5'_ before handing the phone over to Jasper, letting him read what I've sent.

"Atta girl," he says, smirking proudly as he leans down to kiss my temple. "Be good, okay? And gimme a call if you get bored and need us to come sooner. Oh, and wait _inside_ for us to come and pick you up. And—"

"Don't talk to strangers, don't go overboard with the shopping, don't forget to get something to eat… I got it, Jazz—I'll be _fine_." I brace my hands against his chest and push him gently backward. "Go have fun."

"Ten o'clock," he reminds me, ruffling my hair playfully before turning around and walking back to the car. I smile after him for a minute, and then, cursing myself for my silly, love-struck antics, I quickly drop my phone back into my purse and push through the massive doors of the Gallery, doing my best to run into anyone as I make my way into the Friday night crowd.

Once, left to my own devices in the apartment while Jasper was at the library finishing a paper, I watched a movie on TV wherein the upscale male lead took his lowbrow date to the opera for the first time. Though the scene itself was pretty cliché, the way the man described peoples' reactions to opera has stuck with me ever since, mostly 'cause I believe the sentiment is applicable to _any_ situation—not just the arts. _If they love it,_ he'd declared,_ they'll always love it. If they don't, they might appreciate it someday, but it will never be a part of their soul._

Shopping, as it turns out, is a part of my soul.

It's silly, and superficial, and a fairly unrealistic hobby for me to indulge considering the limitations of my bank account. But not only is shopping _fun_, I also firmly believe that it requires a certain amount of innate skill—almost like playing a sport. Or perhaps hunting is a better analogy. Sorting through the racks and shelves and piles of clearance items to find _just_ the right top, or _just_ the right shoes, or _just_ the right accessory before someone else gets to it first… well, laugh if you want, but it takes freaking _talent._ And, as nice as it is to have Jasper along on these little excursions so that he can offer his input on outfits and ensembles, his appreciation for the _artistry_ of it all is virtually non-existent. So tonight I'm thrilled to be able to hone my skill on my own.

It takes me roughly ninety minutes to use up what's left of the gift cards Jasper got me for Christmas. It takes another half hour for me to spend the money that I've been setting aside for a few weeks now in anticipation of this evening.

_Yup… I made a killing._

Laden with nearly more bags than I can carry and admittedly exhausted from all the walking, I finally decide that it's time to practice the little-known but invaluable art of regrouping. I collapse onto an empty bench near the third floor escalators and pull out my paper map of the mall, hoping I'm able to find somewhere decent to grab a bite to eat.

I've just begun to read through the food court options when I hear a familiar, feminine voice calling my name. Looking up, I'm surprised to see Jasper's friend Charlotte standing in front of me, holding almost as many bags in her hands as I've stowed under my bench.

"Alice!" she says again, beaming down at me. "I _thought_ that was you. What're you doing here? Are you with Jasper?"

I try to smile back at her, but I'm almost entirely sure it ends up looking more like a grimace than anything else. Charlotte seems nice enough I suppose, but her uncanny ability to say (or do) the wrong thing at the wrong time makes me more than a little nervous. The same goes for her nearly incessant questioning. Regardless of her intentions, without Jasper here as a buffer, I'd really rather not be interacting with her at all.

"No," I answer cautiously, "Jasper's at the game. I've never been here before, so I thought this would be as good a time as any to check it out. What about you—is Peter here?"

Charlotte laughs and sits down next to me on the bench. "_Hell_ no. Unless it was an emergency, Peter wouldn't be caught dead in a mall. If I'd let him, he'd wear the same three shirts and ratty pair of jeans every day for the rest of his life."

An unwitting smile forms on my lips as I think about the shirts I've just bought Jasper for this exact same reason. Perhaps Charlotte and I have something in common, after all.

"Have you eaten yet?" Charlotte asks, glancing down at the map I still have open on my lap. I shake my head. "Well, don't bother with the food court—everything there is crap. I'm actually about to go grab some sushi from a restaurant down the street, if you wanna come?"

"I dunno, Charlotte…" I hedge warily, not entirely convinced that our mutual affinity for shopping has progressed our friendship to the point where I'm comfortable actually _eating_ with her.

She turns to me with downcast eyes, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. "Listen… I'm actually glad I ran into you tonight. I wanted to apologize for the whole birthday present thing. It was dumb, and I'm sorry if it made things uncomfortable for you or J. I was really just trying to do something nice, and… I guess I kinda screwed it up."

I sigh, raising my hand to run my fingers through my hair. "It was no big deal, Charlotte. You don't have to apologize."

"But I _want_ to," she insists, raising her eyes. "I've felt _awful_ ever since. Let me make it up to you, please?"

I cock my eyebrow at her. "How—by saving me from the nightmare that is the Gallery food court?"

She grins, sensing her imminent victory. "It'd be a start. And I promise—this sushi place is really good. You won't be disappointed."

I hesitate briefly, weighing my options. Option one: I go to dinner with her and spend the entire rest of my evening dodging uncomfortable questions. Not ideal, but at least I stand a chance of getting on her good side this way. Option two: I decline her offer and risk her holding a grudge against me for the rest of my natural life, which could obviously prove problematic if she and Jasper ever end up truly rekindling their friendship.

_Not much of a choice, really._

I stand and pick my bags up off the floor, somehow managing to muster up a sincere smile. "All right—you sold me. Lead the way."

Clearly excited about the opportunity to 'make things right' she quickly escorts me through the crowded space of the mall and out one of the side doors. Her fast stride slows a little once we reach the street, but I'm so used to keeping pace with Jasper, that what's probably an easy walk for her feels more like a jog to me. I'm concentrating so hard on just keeping up with her that I don't even bother to notice my surroundings until we're a few blocks away from the mall. When I finally look down the cold, quiet street on which we're walking, an inexplicable feeling of unease washes over me, causing me to stop in my tracks.

"What's up?" Charlotte asks, clearly confused as she follows my gaze down the road.

I blink dumbly, not really knowing how to explain what I'm feeling. It doesn't even make sense to me.

"It's safe," she says reassuringly, apparently assuming that my silence is based on fear. "I come here all the time."

I should be comforted by her avowal, but I'm not. Something's not right. We shouldn't be here.

We should go back.

I begin walking forward again instead. I'm tired of my every action being governed by fears that I don't understand. Maybe I'll never be able to ride in the back seat of Jasper's car, but I _will_ walk down this stupid street. Charlotte said so herself—it's safe. _I'm_ safe. There's nothing to be afraid of here.

"You know, I hated Maria," Charlotte says after a few minutes of silent walking, apparently ignoring the mini anxiety attack I just had. "That was what was so _dumb_ about that present—I _really_ hated her. But she was _always_ around. She was horrible to everyone—_especially_ Jasper. It was hard, 'cause he's such a nice guy, you know? But every time she was with him, it was like he'd just… disappear. He'd get all quiet and sulky, and she _fed _off that. She fed off of making him miserable. "

Despite the heavy bags in my hands, I wrap my arms across my chest, trying to block out the sudden, unexpected chill in the air. "Is she still around?" I ask absently, only truly half invested in the conversation at this point. But maybe if I can just keep her talking, I won't have to think about where we are.

Charlotte shakes her head. "No, thank god. Last I heard, she'd moved back down south to teach at a middle school or something. Suits her freaking twisted nature exactly. Did Jasper ever _tell_ you how old he was when they started dating?"

I nod. Or at least, I _think_ I nod. I'm no longer sure. I don't even realize that I've stopped walking until I hear Charlotte's voice a few feet in front of me, asking if I'm okay.

I'm not okay.

I'm looking at a shiny, green, obviously newly-installed trashcan that stands out against the general age and decay of the objects around it.

I'm standing in the slanted light of an oddly-tilted streetlight, looking at a faded stain on the cement.

I'm watching the stoplight over the intersection click greenyellowred, greenyellowred, greenyellowred over and over again, until I can't take it anymore and have to shut my eyes.

And then, behind the darkness of my eyelids, I find myself in another place entirely,

_standing at an airport ticket counter, tearfully eyeing the attendant as he delivers the bad news._

"_I'm sorry, ma'am—nothing's flying out of here tonight. Have you seen the weather forecast? There's a freak snowstorm coming—everything's delayed. Honestly, you'll be lucky if you make it out of here by Tuesday."_

"_Tuesday!" I moan, tugging hopelessly at a long lock of hair that's fallen into my face. "But that's three days from now! My brother is proposing to my best friend tomorrow, and I _promised_ I'd be there. I _need_ to be there—I'm part of the surprise. Please…" I glance down at the attendant's name badge and then look him directly in the eye. "Please, James—isn't there _anything_ you can do?"_

_Surely, hundreds of displaced, disgruntled passengers have already come to him with some variation of this sob story tonight. I don't know why I should be the exception to the airline's official 'hand all passengers a list of nearby hotels and tell them to wait out the storm' policy. And yet, I am. The man in front of me studies my face for a long moment, and then looks down and begins typing rapidly on his keyboard. A minute or so later, he smiles back up at me, obviously encouraged by what his computer has told him._

"_Like I said—there's nothing flying out of _here_ any time soon. But there's a flight out of Philadelphia at six o'clock tomorrow morning. I don't think the storm'll make it that far south. _If_ you can get to Penn station within the next forty-five minutes, and _if_ Amtrak is still running_, _you can take the train down to Philly, and then catch a bus at the station that'll take you directly to the airport. You'd better hurry, though. The trains probably aren't going to be…"_

_His voice fades behind me because I'm already running. Running out the airport doors to catch a cab, to catch a train, to catch a bus, to catch a flight that will take me home._

_I'm going home._

_I'm going home._

_I'm going home._

And then everything is black.

* * *

A few end notes:

Mikey's and The Gallery are both real places, and are up on the TMD map I have linked on my profile.

Philadelphia did, in fact, play Charlotte on the 27th of March, 2009. Charlotte won by five points.

The line Alice quotes about opera is from _Pretty Woman_.

**In lieu of leaving reviews, I'd like to ask y'all to check out www. thefandomgivesback. com. All proceeds donated to the Twilight Fandom's "virtual lemonade stand" will go toward developing new cures and treatments for childhood cancer. If you even have $5.00 to spare, please consider donating it to this worthy cause.**


	22. Valley of Ashes

A/N: Sorry, again, for the delay.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the Fandom Gives Back. The generosity of this fandom never ceases to astound me.

And thanks, as always, to Twila and her lightning-fast editing skills, as well as her patience and guidance as I ranted to her about trouble spots. Thanks also to cinnamonscars for her key suggestions for the ending.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

* * *

Chapter 21: _Valley of Ashes_

"_This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air."  
__~F. Scott Fitzgerald, __The Great Gatsby_

_

* * *

_

**JPOV**

"Did you _see_ that shit?" Emmett fumes, jabbing his index finger angrily toward the court as he reassumes his place in the seat next to me.

In fact, I did not 'see that shit.' Nor, incidentally, have I witnessed any of the on-court action that Emmett's been referring to the last twenty times he's asked me this same question. In all, I've probably only _seen_ about ten minutes of real basketball tonight, since every time the shot clock enters the single digits, the die-hard fans surrounding us jump to their feet, effectively blocking my view of both the court and the Jumbotron. I did actually try following suit for the first few minutes of the match, but by the time I managed to struggle to my feet, the play was already over and everyone was sitting back down again. So I gave up, and have instead spent the last hour amusing myself by imagining outrageous scenarios to accompany Emmett's reactions to the game.

For instance: right now, I've decided that he's so upset because a Carolina player, fed up with the relentless taunting from the crowd, has vented his anger by engaging in a fist fight with Hip-Hop—the 76ers' inexplicable sunglasses-wearing bunny of a mascot.

I turn to Emmett and nod gravely, fighting a smile as I imagine a solitary grey ear lying at center court: the tragic evidence of Hip-Hop's demise.

"Clearly, it was a foul."

More than once tonight, my ill-informed responses to the game have earned me confused, slightly concerned looks. But apparently this time I've hit the nail on the head, 'cause Emmett folds his arms across his chest and grumbles, "You're goddamn _right_ it was a foul," before launching into a detailed recap of the last play. I do my best to nod at the appropriate times during his rant, hoping the feigned attention masks my disappointment over the fact that the foul in question evidently involved a blocked shot, and not a full-out mascot brawl.

"If Philly keeps this shit up, Alice'll end up being right," Emmett concludes bluntly as the halftime buzzer sounds.

The couple sitting in front of us makes their way out into the aisle in search of concessions, finally allowing me a view of the scoreboard. I smirk when I see that the home team's down by three. The first and only time I'd gambled with Alice, I'd won on a technicality. You couldn't pay me enough to ever bet against her again.

Emmett reaches under his seat to retrieve the last of the four hotdogs he bought for himself at the beginning of the game. How he can still be hungry is beyond me—I've only had _one_ of those monstrosities, and even the _thought_ of having another makes my stomach turn. But then again, Emmett's never really been picky about food. The running joke in our dorm freshman year was that if food were past its expiration date, we'd give it to Emmett instead of throwing it away. I once watched him eat an entire tub of expired yogurt without batting an eyelash, so really, I shouldn't be surprised by his ability to knock back four hotdogs in one sitting, no matter how nasty they are.

"I like her, by the way," Emmett announces, his voice muffled by his attentive chewing.

I turn to face him, quirking my eyebrow. "Who?"

Emmett swallows his food and shrugs. "Y'know—Alice. Piss poor taste in guys, obviously," he says, flashing me a mocking grin, "but regardless, I really like her. It's too bad she didn't wanna come tonight—I would've liked to hang out with her more before I leave."

Despite his idiotic jibe at my expense, I find myself grinning inwardly at his words. It doesn't escape my attention that he's made almost the same appraisal of Alice that she made of him last night. I don't know what the hell happened when I was on the phone with my sister, but those two obviously had some sort of kumbaya moment during which they became… not _friends_, really, since that kinda thing takes more time than a ten minute staged phone call can allow. But at the very least, the foundation for friendship has been laid.

And, god, I couldn't be more grateful for that. I'd reassured Alice countless times that Emmett would like her, but truthfully, I'd been more than a little concerned that (at my family's bidding of course) he'd ask her a slew of inappropriate questions that would confuse and frustrate her. Clearly though, either he'd kept his mouth shut last night (possible) or she'd held her own (probable), because somehow, they've managed to reach a mutual understanding. And as long as the two of them are on the same page, I know I don't have anything else to worry about when it comes to introducing Alice to the rest of my family.

"I tried to get her to come," I say, shrugging as I reach for my soda. "'Sides, you can always stay longer if you want. The couch is open, and it's not like I've got anything better to do."

Emmett laughs and takes another bite of his hotdog. "Nah, I promised my parents I'd get down to see them before I headed back to Texas. They're already mad as hell that I'm not bringing Chip with me. Wouldn't wanna rock the boat further by not showing up at all."

I slurp the dregs of my drink loudly through the straw, drawing out the annoying sound far longer than necessary as I try to figure out how to respond to this offhanded reference to my nephew. Emmett has mentioned his son a few times since he's been here, but he's always done so nervously, his eyes darting away from mine as soon as he says Chip's name. I suppose his hesitancy has something to do with the fact that the last time he'd tried to talk about his kid with me… well, let's just say I'd been a little less than tactful in my response. But now, although I haven't entirely _forgiven _him for being so careless with my sister, I no longer harbor any anger toward him. I thought that by agreeing to let him come here, I'd made that much clear. In true Emmett form, he's made this whole trip fairly easy on me—never commenting on or drawing attention to my hand, or neck, or limp, though I know he's seen all three. And hell, I thought I'd been making things easy on _him_, too by leaving the door open for him to talk about whatever the hell he wanted. But apparently subtlety isn't something in which Emmett's especially well-versed, and now that I feel like a complete ass for making him afraid to talk about his own kid, maybe it's time to try something a little more overt.

"How is he?" I ask, despite the fact that I get almost daily updates from both my sister and my parents. "Chip, I mean. I bet he's getting pretty big by now."

Emmett's head snaps toward me, his eyes cautiously scanning my face. Seeing nothing either ironic or sarcastic in my expression, he finally relaxes back against his chair, grinning widely, proudly. "Yeah, he's _huge_. Hasn't Rose sent you any pictures?"

I shake my head. My family and I correspond mostly via phone, and when someone _does_ happen to send me e-mail, it's usually my mom sending my pictures of the familiar Texas scenery in a misguided attempt to get me to come home.

"Here," Emmett says, wiping his hands on his pants and then digging into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. He folds it open and then carefully pulls out a small photograph and hands it to me. "We took that a few weeks ago. I swear to god he's grown another inch since then. Kid just won't stop eating."

I nod absently, only really half listening to him as I stare down at the image in my hand. The only picture I have of my nephew was taken mere days after his birth when—let's be honest—he bore more resemblance to a drowned, hairless cat than an actual human child. But now... _Jesus_... this can't be the same kid, can it? My sister and parents have told me over and over again that he's growing up fast, but this is a little _boy_ in this picture—not a baby. A little _person_ with curly brown hair, and brown eyes, and too-small ears, and…

_God… who knew you could miss so much in a year?_

I frown and swallow tightly. Looking down at the smile of mid-laughter on Chip's face, I have to remind myself that _this is what I wanted_. I'd _wanted_ him to be happy. I'd _wanted_ him to have all the attention and the care and the love that _I_ didn't deserve, which is exactly _why_ I'd distanced myself from my family after the fire. And whether my actions were right or wrong, it's clear that this little boy has gotten the happiness I'd wanted for him. Yet at the same time, his growth is tangible evidence of the irredeemable passage of time. Obviously I wouldn't trade my life with Alice for anything, but for the first time, I'm beginning to feel the full weight of the sacrifices—both necessary and foolish—that have made that life possible.

I clear my throat and hand the picture back to Emmett. "He's um... You're right—I can't believe how big he's gotten."

Again, Emmett studies me warily for a moment before waving my hand away. "Keep it," he says, standing up to shove his wallet back in his pocket. "I made the mistake of buying Rose a camera for Christmas. I've got more of those than I really care to think about."

I pull my hand back hesitantly, oddly appreciative of this small offering. "You sure?"

Never one to draw out an awkward moment, Emmett simply nods and then switches gears entirely by pointing unceremoniously at my empty cup. "Want another? I'm gonna go get some nachos."

"I'm good," I say, shaking my head in amusement. "I don't know how you can still be hungry."

Emmett shrugs and then, rather than try to maneuver around me, easily steps over the vacated seats in front of us and begins making his way up the aisle. Still half-laughing at his insatiable appetite, I retrieve my wallet from my pocket and set to work trying to place Chip's picture in one of the plastic photo-holders, which, like most things, is more difficult one-handed that it would be otherwise. My phone begins to ring just as I'm finally getting the picture to cooperate, and in lieu of abandoning my task, I let it go to voicemail. After I've finally gotten everything situated, I check my cell and am more than a little relived to see that the call I missed was from Charlotte. I just spoke to her a few days ago, and I'm not exactly eager to have another hour-long recap of everything that my college friends have been up to in the past year. Maybe I'll have Emmett surprise her with a call after the game. Surely the knowledge that he's moving back to Philly will divert some of her attention away from me for awhile.

I'm about to put my phone back in my pocket when it starts ringing again. This time, I smile when I see the name on the caller ID and immediately answer the call.

"Bored already, little darlin'? I thought you'd at least las—"

"Jasper? Thank _god_. I tried to..."

I jerk the phone away from my face to check the caller ID, even as the caller continues to ramble on. Just as they had when the call first came through, Alice's name and number blink back at me from the screen. _So why the hell is Charlotte's voice on the other end of the line?_

"What the fuck, Chaz?" I spit angrily, not at all amused that she's somehow roped Alice into helping her get in touch with me. "Put Alice on the phone."

"I _can't_, J, that's what I've been trying to _tell _you," she answers breathlessly. Charlotte is usually too flighty to let anything affect her deeply, so the unmistakable tremor of panic in her voice causes every muscle in my body to tense. Suddenly, I'm desperate to hear Alice's voice.

"What happened, Charlotte?" I ask cautiously. "Where's Alice?"

"She's here." _Thank god. _"But Jasper, something's wrong with her. I… I ran into her at the mall, and we were going to get something to eat, and all of a sudden she just... I dunno, I think she fainted."

"What do you mean, you _think_ she fainted?" I growl, my patience ebbing with every second Charlotte doesn't put Alice on the goddamn phone.

"I don't _know_!" Charlotte repeats, the pitch of her voice rising in tandem with her stress. "She just sort of… collapsed, and then… I mean her _eyes_ are open, but she won't _look_ at me. She won't talk to me, she won't stand up—she's just sitting on the curb, and god, J, I don't know what to do and—"

"I'm coming."

The truth of my words hits me only after they've left my mouth. Without even realizing it, I've already gotten out of my seat and am now halfway up the aisle, taking the narrow stairs two at a time. My legs are burning from the effort—screaming, even, as my skin stretches to accommodate my strides. But the pain only makes me push harder. I'll be paying for this exertion tomorrow anyway—I may as well give it everything I have.

Hearing no immediate response from the other end of the line, I press my phone closer to my face and try again. "Did you hear that, Chaz? I said, I'm coming. Where are you?"

"Hold on, I'm checking the cross-streets," Charlotte explains, her breathing heavy and erratic as she runs. "Okay, Jasper? We're on the corner of 8th and… Walnut. Just down the street from Aso—you know, that little sushi place near the mall?"

"I know it," I confirm, finally reaching the exit at the top of the stairs and pushing out into the crowds hovering around the concession stands. "Jesus Christ, Charlotte, what the hell were you doing dragging her all the way..."

'_On the evening of March 22nd, a drunk driver ran the light at the corner of Walnut and 8__th__, striking a bus and—'_

If I'd run into a fucking wall, I couldn't have stopped faster than I do when I realize where Alice is. I take a deep breath and shut my eyes tightly in an effort to stop the sudden spinning in my head. But it doesn't help. Because behind my eyelids, I keep seeing the accident scene as I'd seen it on television—bodies, smoke, debris, blood, _Alice._

"Move her."

From the silence on the other end of the line, I know that Charlotte hasn't heard my strained whisper. I swallow—both to wet my tongue and to force down the bile rising in my throat—and then try again. This time, my voice is louder, bordering on hysteria.

"_Move her_."

"I _can't_ move her_,_ Jasper. She's just _sitting_ here, and I can't get her to—"

"_Jesus, Charlotte!" _I shout, my eyes snapping open. "I don't care if you have to _carry_ her, just get her the fuck _outta_ there _now!_"

Fortunately for both of us, the malice in my voice carries enough implicit threat that Charlotte doesn't need to be told again. "Okay..." she murmurs quietly. "I—I'll call Peter and we'll try to get her back to my apartment."

"Don't _try_, just _do_ it, Chaz. I'll be there soon."

I disconnect the call without waiting for her answer. Dropping my phone into my pocket, I begin shoving my way forward again, elbowing past the small crowd that gathered to stare at me during my outburst. The pain that had driven me faster before now just serves as a pitiful reminder that no matter how hard I try, I can't move fast _enough_. Alice is scared, Alice is alone, Alice _needs_ me. And I can't fucking move fast enough.

"Jasper?"

A pair of strong hands suddenly grabs my shoulders, effectively stopping my forward progress and rooting me in place. I struggle uselessly against the force in front of me for several seconds before I belatedly recognize the sound of my own name.

"Jasper—_Jasper. _Calm the fuck down, man. What the hell's going on?"

"Let go of me," I hiss, glaring up at Emmett. His eyes widen when they meet mine, and his fingers constrict to grip my already aching shoulders even tighter. Ignoring his obvious concern, I drop my head and push against him again.

"Let me _go_, Emmett. It's _Alice_."

I take back every horrible thing I've ever said about him when, without making me explain myself further, he drops his hands and lets me by. Half a minute later, he overtakes me and begins clearing a path for us through the infuriating crowd far easier than I'd been doing on my own. Within seconds, we are winding our way down the enormous ramp to the main level—him parting groups of people as a boat cuts through water, and me struggling yet somehow managing to follow in his wake. Two floors and countless angry epithets later, we finally reach the nearly deserted ground floor of the arena, ignoring the concerned looks from the lingering ticket agents and security guards as we hurry past them toward the doors.

I remember thinking once that I would never run again. But the moment Emmett and I exit the arena, I am running—or at least, as close to it as all I'll ever be. I can already feel the bruises and tears forming beneath my skin as I limp awkwardly across the parking lot, but the same frigid Philadelphia air that I've spent the last two years loathing now proves useful as my whole body begins turning numb from the cold. By the time I see my car, the only pain I feel is the stinging of my lungs as they desperately gasp for air.

Emmett reaches the car first, and when I circle around to the driver's side, he's already standing there holding his hand out to me, palm up.

"Keys."

So much is going through my mind that it takes me a few seconds to understand what the hell he's asking for. When I do, I shake my head, suddenly furious, and try to push past him to grab the door handle.

"Fuck that, Em. I'm driving. I—"

For the second time tonight, Emmett physically restrains me—this time putting a hand on my chest and blocking the door with his body. "Jasper, _give me the goddamn keys._"

It takes me about the space of a second to realize that, even if I had a chance of winning this, arguing with him further would only waste valuable time. And besides, he's right: given my mental state, I probably have as much chance of getting into an accident as I do of reaching Alice quickly and in once piece. So without another word, I drop my keys into Emmett's hand and then walk around the car and slide in through the passenger's side, buckling my seatbelt just as he starts the engine.

"Where are we going?" Emmett asks, throwing the car into reverse and backing out of the parking space. "Is she at a hospital or...?"

I shake my head. "No—do you remember where Charlotte lives? Alice is with her."

Again, Emmett's predilection for acting first and speaking later proves useful when, after shooting me a brief, confused look, he simply turns his attention back to the road and begins maneuvering the car toward the exit. He drives slowly through the congested parking lot and the small streets around the arena, but fortunately, once we exit onto the freeway, he speeds up until we're cruising at about fifteen miles over the speed limit. It's not nearly as fast as I'd like, but the blurring, bleeding landscape out my window is enough to assure me that at least we're making progress.

Of course, now that I don't have pushing or shoving or running to distract me, the real panic of the situation begins to set in. Adrenaline exacerbates my already frayed nerves, and both my legs start bouncing involuntarily against the floor of the car, as if this pantomimed running could make us go faster.

_Charlotte must be exaggerating_, I try to reassure myself in an attempt to calm down. _This is _Alice_. She never gets hurt; she never gets scared. _I'm _the one who can never hold my shit together. She's the strong one. Of course she's okay._

_She's okay. She's okay. She's okay._

"Is she okay?"

Emmett's innocent and entirely appropriate question serves as a dissenting answer to my thoughts: instinctively, I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my arms across my chest as fresh waves of panic and doubt crash over me. My posture must be enough of a response for him, because there is renewed concern in his voice when, after a minute of silence, he quietly asks, "What happened?"

I drag my fingers roughly over my face, not sure exactly how to answer him, but knowing that he's owed an explanation. "I don't know_,_" I finally admit, groaning inwardly at the pathetic accuracy of the statement. After all, what am I really sure of, here? Charlotte has Alice's phone, Alice isn't talking, Charlotte is scared... This could all mean absolutely nothing.

Or it could mean that something is terribly wrong.

I open my eyes and look over to see Emmett stealing sideways glances at me, still waiting for his explanation. I sigh and run my hand over my face again. "Chaz called and told me that Alice had... passed out or something. That's all I know."

Even in the darkness, I can see Emmett relax his grip on the steering wheel. Clearly, he'd been expecting a lot worse.

"I wouldn't worry about it, J. She probably just didn't eat or something. Hell, sometimes when Rosalie skips lunch she—"

"She's not fucking _hungry_, Emmett," I spit, my voice ringing loudly in the confined space of the car. "She's..."

I stop speaking abruptly, letting the words I'd been about to say die in my throat. I'd _promised_ Alice that what she chose to tell my family about her past was up to her. I've gathered from what little she's told me about her conversation with Emmett last night that she didn't offer him any details about the nature of her accident, and up until this moment, that was _fine_ with me. She and I have always shared this small, safe space apart from the world—a space where my ravaged skin and her scarred memory mean nothing, and we are just Alice and Jasper. Normal. But tonight, Emmett has unwittingly been dragged into that space as well. He's seen how scared I am, he understands the urgency of the situation. He knows that something is very wrong with Alice. There's no hiding this from him anymore. He may not need to know all the details, but he does at least need to know the truth.

"Do you remember that huge bus accident about a year ago?" I begin, amazed by how steady my voice sounds, even as I make a liar of myself by revealing Alice's past without her knowledge or consent. Emmett shakes his head, and it occurs to me that of _course_ he doesn't remember it—he was already in Texas by then. So, quietly, numbly, I relate the details of the accident and the nature of Alice's injuries. Surprisingly, Emmett doesn't interrupt me once while I'm speaking, save for the occasional squeaking of flesh against rubber as his hands grip the steering wheel more and more tightly. When I tell him about how no one has come for Alice in the year since her accident, I see his jaw clench tightly in the dim rays of the freeway lights; when I explain to him my theory about what I believe happened to her tonight, he steps on the gas, sending the needle on the speedometer flying above 80.

"Jesus…" he finally whispers after a few moments of silence, freeing one hand from the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck. "I didn't… _Jesus_. How does something like that even _happen_?"

I snort contemptuously, closing my eyes again and leaning my head back against the seat. Every time I think about what happened to Alice, I ask myself the same damn question. How can someone as unfailingly _good_ as she have been through so much hell? How can someone who was abandoned by those who were meant to love her still find it in herself to trust someone as fucked up as me? And how, having been granted that unfathomable trust, could I have failed her as thoroughly as I have tonight? I should have been paying better attention. I shouldn't have left her alone. I should have _been_ there.

"Which one is it again?"

I open my eyes to see that we have pulled off the freeway, and are now stopped at the end of Charlotte's street. I squint in the darkness, trying to remember the shape of her building.

"Down there on the right," I finally say, indicating a three-storey complex at the other end of the street. Emmett pulls up to the building, and before we come to a complete stop I'm already stumbling out of the car, somehow managing to stay upright despite tripping over the curb on my way to the front door. Running (or any sort of quick movement) is no longer an option since the car ride has considerably stiffened my muscles, so Emmett has already parked the car illegally on the street and caught up with me by the time I ring the buzzer for Charlotte's apartment. Infuriatingly, no one answers the intercom. I pull out my phone and dial Charlotte's number, and am still listening to it ring when Peter appears on the other side of the glass door.

"Is she here?" I ask, pushing past Peter into the building as soon as he lets me in.

Peter's face registers surprise when he sees Emmett following behind me, but fortunately he doesn't bother with questions as he shuts the door behind us and begins leading us through the lobby.

"Actually, she's in my car," he explains, opening the door to the stairwell leading to the garage. "We were just pulling up when you called. She's still not moving or speaking or anything—it took both me and Charlotte to get her in the car. She doesn't look good, J... Do you know what's wrong with her?"

Ignoring his question, I focus on descending the stairs as quickly as possible, leaning heavily against the railing for support. It's true that Alice has gotten much better about riding in cars, but _god_, I'm sure being in a stranger's vehicle tonight hasn't helped at all. Again, I curse myself for not having been there. I could've held her; I could've talked to her. Instead, my insistence that Charlotte move her has likely only made things worse.

Thankfully, Peter's Honda is parked in one of the closest spaces to the stairwell, so it takes me only a few seconds to make it from the door to the car. Charlotte is hovering over the open passenger's side door when I reach her, but when she hears me come up beside her, she quickly moves aside. _She's okay, she's okay, she's okay_, my mind tries to assure me again as I move to take Charlotte's place.

But what I see when I crouch down next to the car is anything but okay.

The first time I ever saw Alice, she was little more than a shadow—a dark silhouette against the harsh fluorescent light of my hospital room. And yet, even then, there seemed to be more substance to her than there is now. Her body is curled in on itself, her legs hugged to her chest and her head buried in her knees. Her hair, which was styled to perfection three hours ago, now hangs lank and listless around her face. Her fingers are white; her body is absolutely, terrifyingly still. I can't even tell if she's breathing.

Carefully, slowly, I reach out for her, intending to take her hand. But before I touch her, a thought occurs to me that stops me cold. I swivel around to face Charlotte, who is watching me from Peter's arms.

"Did she hit her head?" I ask hoarsely, my voice sticking in my throat.

"What?"

I clench my fist and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep my tone level for Alice's sake. "When she fainted—_did she hit her head?_"

"No," Charlotte answers immediately, allowing a negligible amount of tension to leave my body. "She—she fell, but I was standing right there. I caught her."

I nod and then take a slow, deep breath before turning back around to Alice. A fresh jolt of fear rips through me when I see her again, but I do my best to shake it off as I tentatively reach up to stroke her hair. She doesn't look up, but nor does she immediately flinch away, and I try to tell myself that the fact that she's even letting me touch her is a good sign. I drop my right knee to the ground to steady myself, and then gently take her hands in mine.

"Alice," I murmur, trying to rub some life back into her icy fingers. "Alice, sweetheart, it's okay. I'm here."

For an immeasurable space of time, nothing happens. She doesn't look at me; she doesn't shy away. And as the minutes pass, it becomes harder and harder to believe that this non-reaction can mean anything good. My mind screams at me again and again to _help her_, but for all its fury, the voice in my head can't tell me what the hell I'm supposed to _do_.

Finally, the stillness becomes intolerable. Carefully, I reach behind her legs and hook my fingers under her chin, applying upward pressure until her face lifts out of her knees.

Her colorless face, her white lips, her smudged makeup—seeing all of that is awful enough. But then I look into her eyes, and _god_… I can actually _feel_ my heart stop beating. Because even though they're undeniably the same cinnamon-brown eyes I've spent the past four months memorizing, it's like something living has been sucked right out of them. It's not that they're empty—something akin to recognition, or at least _awareness_ flickers in them as I hold her gaze. But neither are they full. Something uniquely Alice has been torn from her, brutally excised by whatever it was she saw or remembered on that street corner tonight. Some small yet infinitely significant part of her Self is gone.

Alice blinks a few times, her head bobbing slightly, like she's having trouble staying awake. And then, without warning, she turns away from me and looks out the windshield, laying her cheek on her knees.

"I was going home," she offers flatly, expressionlessly, as though her words explain everything. They explain nothing, of course; I barely pay attention to them at all, except to register that she's finally spoken and that she's mentioned the word 'home.'

"It's okay, Alice," I whisper, my reassurance lacking any real conviction. "I'll take you home."

Reluctantly, I release her hands and begin to push myself up off the ground.

I'd all but forgotten about Emmett until he comes up next to me, extending his hand into my line of sight. My muscles are shot; the frozen air is doing nothing for the pain now, and even bracing myself against the car door, I can barely get my legs underneath me. So I take his hand gratefully, far too physically and emotionally exhausted to feel self-conscious about accepting help. Finally standing, I look around the garage to see that Peter and Charlotte are gone and that my Mercedes is now idling a few feet from us, the passenger's door standing open. Confused, I turn to Emmett, who just shrugs.

"What else do you need me to do?"

I look back down at Alice, who is still huddled up in the front seat of Peter's car, her cheek resting on her knees. Understanding what's required of him before I can even form the words to ask, Emmett crouches down next to the door and carefully slips his arms around Alice's body. Instead of lifting her from the car immediately, however, he turns and looks up at me, his eyes asking for permission. And... _god... _it _kills_ me that I can't be the one to hold her; the one who's strong enough to carry her. But I _can't_ and Emmett _can _and Alice _needs_, so my own feelings of inadequacy are as selfish as they are irrelevant. I nod and step aside, watching partly with envy and partly with relief as Emmett takes her in his arms with more tenderness than I ever dreamed him capable of and carries her to my car.

"Wait," I call, stopping him before he sets her down in the front seat.

I make my way around to the driver's side and press the button that lowers the convertible roof. I then climb into the back seat, sliding over until I'm seated in the middle of the car. Understanding my intentions, Emmett waits until I get situated and then lifts Alice over the side of the car, positioning her so that she's leaning against me. I shrug out of my coat and drape it over as much of Alice's body as possible, and then put my arm around her shoulder, hugging her into my side.

The driver's side door slams shut, and I look up to see Emmett eyeing me pointedly in the rearview mirror as he buckles his seatbelt. I shake my head at his implicit question, and lean down to kiss Alice's hair.

"Just… drive slowly, Em, please. And leave the top down."

He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and I briefly wonder how much longer his tolerance of my half-assed explanations and egregious mood swings can last. I don't have to wait long for my answer: unexpectedly I feel an added weight on my arms, and when I look up, I see Emmett spreading his ridiculously large 76ers jacket over Alice as well. Catching my eye, he frowns at me disapprovingly for a second, and then shifts the car into gear and steers us toward the exit. Apparently I haven't quite exhausted his patience yet.

Emmett _does_ drive home slowly—almost recklessly so—earning himself more than one angry glance (and crude gesture) from drivers who have to cross into the wrong lane to get around us. If he's aware that people are pissed at him though, he doesn't show it, instead keeping his attention locked on the road in front of him. And as much as I'd like to scream back at the people giving us shit as they pass, I, too, keep my head down and my attention focused on the girl in my arms. Throughout the ride, I try talking to Alice, reassuring her—reassuring _myself_—that once we get home, everything will be all right. But she never responds; never gives any indication that she's evening listening to me. About halfway to the apartment, her eyes flutter shut and her body goes slack against mine.

Impossibly, she sleeps.

Emmett takes Alice in his arms again when we get back to my building, holding her through the elevator ride up to my floor. "Jesus, J, she's shaking," he whispers as he follows me into my apartment. "Maybe we should, you know, take her to the hospital or—"

"_No_," I hiss loudly, causing Alice to flinch in her sleep. I wait until I'm sure I haven't woken her completely, and then make a conscious effort to control my voice as I shut the front door and lead Emmett down the hall to my bedroom.

"No fucking hospitals, Emmett. She's just cold. And tired. She'll be okay once she gets some rest."

_She has to be._

The light from the hallway is bright enough that, even in the darkness of my room, I can watch Emmett cross over to my bed and gently lay Alice down on top of the covers. Likewise, I can see the indecision in his eyes when he straightens up and turns to stare me down hard, obviously wondering whether or not he should trust my judgment. And, well, why the hell should he? I'm not a _doctor_ or _psychiatrist_. Hell, I don't even know for sure what _happened_ to Alice tonight. But I _do_ know that if anyone hates hospitals as much as I do, it's her. There might come a point where I have no choice but to resort to that option, but as long as I can avoid it, I will.

"There're some extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom. Could you get them?" I ask, walking around Emmett to sit next to Alice on the bed. I untie her shoelaces and then carefully remove her shoes and set them on the floor. When I look up, Emmett is still standing there watching me, his arms folded across his chest. For another minute, the only movement in the room is that of his eyes, which shimmer in the dim light as they flit back and forth between Alice and me. But eventually, without any further provocation, he turns and walks out of the room, returning a few moments later with a stack of blankets.

"I'm gonna go grab her stuff from the car," he says quietly as he sets everything down at the end of the bed.

At first, I have no idea what he's talking about. I don't remember Alice having any _stuff_. I just remember _her, _sitting curled up in Peter's car, her arms around her knees. But then it occurs to me that earlier in the evening—_god, has it really only been a few hours since then?—_she must have had a purse. And the mall… she'd been shopping. Did she even have time to buy anything before she unknowingly walked right into her own personal nightmare?

I nod at Emmett, glad that _someone's_ thinking about that material shit, 'cause I'm sure as hell not. He begins walking out of the room, but hesitates in the doorway before turning back to look at me.

"When I come back up, I'll be right outside if you need me."

I understand the implication of his words immediately: _if she gets any worse, we're _going_ to the hospital._ I nod at him again, stiffly this time.

_She's not getting any worse. She'll be okay. Just give her time…_

I'm still trying to convince myself when Emmett closes the door behind him, shrouding my bedroom in darkness.

I wait only until my eyes adjust to the faint streetlight filtering in through my window before kicking off my shoes and spreading the blankets out over the bed. Apart from her steady shivering, Alice doesn't move when I tuck the covers around her, or even when I crawl in next to her and pull her against me, sliding my right arm under her shoulders and wrapping my left around her waist. God, she even _smells_ cold—her whole body _reeks_ of that vaguely dirty, leafy smell that imbues the air every winter. I hold her as close as physically possible, sandwiching her feet between my legs and covering her hands with mine.

And then... we lie like that. For hours.

At some point, Alice does stop trembling; eventually, our little cocoon of warmth becomes more like an oven, and I have to start pulling blankets off of us to keep us from sweltering in the muggy heat. I was right—she was just cold and exhausted. Physically, at least, when she wakes up, she'll be fine. I should be happy, comforted, _grateful_ for this stillness, this peacefulness, this sleep.

And yet, I'm_ terrified. _ Because _physical _pain? I can handle physical pain. I know how to care for a wound; I know how to give someone a pill to alleviate pain. I know how to make someone warm. But the mind can't be healed with bandages and antibiotics. No graft can heal a fractured memory.

I close my eyes and remind myself that this has happened to Alice once before: that night in the hospital when we unwittingly caught a news segment about her accident. She'd gone unnaturally still and quiet then, too, and even though I'd hardly known her at the time, her reaction was _so_ out of character, that I remember being almost paralyzed with fear. _Almost_. I'd managed to snap her out of it that night by following the lead she'd given me a few weeks earlier—by telling her about the fire, the resulting wounds, and how shitty _my_ life was so that _she_ wouldn't feel isolated in her pain. And it'd worked because there'd been a balance then—a twisted equilibrium of misery that somehow allowed us both to heal.

Or so I thought.

The night that I'd told Alice what happened to me, she'd pointed out the symmetry of our respective broken parts. It'd been almost fun to imagine then—the two of us fitting together like puzzle pieces to make up 'one complete person.' But so much has changed since that night. Physically, if I'm not doing stupid shit like trying to elbow my way through crowds of people, or kneeling on a cold, cement floor, I'm no longer in much pain. I can go out in public without spending every second wondering how many people are staring at me. I can show people my scars. I can look in the mirror and see a _person_—a _whole_ person—instead of a ghost. And all of this is largely due to the person lying in my arms. But somewhere along the line, something went wrong. Because Alice… Alice is still broken.

It's my fault. Whereas my pain was loud and angry, Alice's has always been quiet and withdrawn. But all this time, she's has been suffering, too. There've been signs—the shame in her voice when she told me it didn't matter when we celebrated her birthday, her uncharacteristic lies when Charlotte asked her about her past, the way she constantly mentions my family without ever actively trying to find her own—_so many signs,_ and I missed them _all_ because the only thing Jasper Whitlock could hear or feel or see was Jasper fucking Whitlock. I should've known this was coming. Even if it wasn't tonight, even if it wasn't because she accidentally stumbled upon the scene of her accident, it was coming. I should've seen it; I should've been watching for it.

_I should've fucking prevented it._

If _just once_, I'd stepped outside of myself and asked her if she was willing to start looking for her family again, this might not have happened. She's constantly calling me out whenever I get all mopey and morose about my scars—if _just once_ I'd stopped her when she made some self-deprecating reference to the fact that no one came for her after her accident, I might've been able to prevent this. Hell, if I'd insisted on following through with my promise to help her find her mountains instead of being content to stay holed up with her, gratifying my own fucking selfish desires, I might've _at least_ staved this off a little longer; bought her some more time. But I did none of these things. I let her past blindside her, blindside _us_, and now I have no _clue_ how to fix the things that I allowed to break.

I bury my head between Alice's shoulder blades and place my hand over her heart, as though listening to her breathing, her heartbeat, might serve some magical, illuminating purpose. Of course, it serves no purpose except to eventually lure me into a fitful sleep. When an ephemeral yet vivid nightmare startles me awake some time later, the weak grey light of a cloudy morning is already pooling in through my window, spreading over my room like a thin dusting of ash.

"Jasper?"

_God. Alice._

She shifts in my arms, attempting to turn around and face me. Unwilling to let her go completely, I roll onto my back and then gather her into my side, taking a deep, relieved breath as she lays her head on my chest. I run my fingers through her hair again and again, and beneath the remaining blanket her legs tangle with mine, causing my torn, stiff, overexerted muscles to throb with pain. But it's worth it just to know that she remembers me, remembers this, remembers _us_. For a moment, this silent reconnection is all that matters.

"You really scared me, Alice," I finally whisper. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, and for a long time, the only sound is that of our staggered breathing. I'm about to tell her that she doesn't have to say anything right now if she's not ready, when she sighs and presses closer to me, burying her head in my shoulder.

"That place," she says quietly, "that street... That was where it happened, wasn't it?"

I nod and lean down to kiss the top of her head. "Do you remember it? The accident, I mean. Is that why you—"

"I don't remember anything."

Both of our bodies go tense as soon as she cuts me off. Almost in unison, our breathing thins out and our heartbeats speed up. _She's lying_. This is something I might not have caught before, but now that I've spend hours analyzing every mistake, every oversight I've made in the past few months, the prevarication in her voice is impossible to miss.

_But why the hell would she lie about something like this? If she remembered something, why won't she tell me the truth?_

"I just… _felt_ it," she continues, feigning disinterest by tracing a pattern on my chest with her finger. Still, her heart is racing. "It felt weird to be there, like how I used to get when I'd ride in your car. I couldn't breathe or talk or think, and then the next thing I remember…"

Alice abruptly jerks up into a sitting position, her back facing me as she scans the room. "I don't remember how I got back here."

She turns around to face me as she speaks, and when she meets my eyes, my breath catches audibly in my throat. Because that vacancy, that lack, that emptiness—it's still there. Nothing has been restored to her during the night. Part of her is still out on that street corner, frozen indelibly into a moment now twelve hours past.

A light knock on my door startles both of us, and we both turn instinctively toward the sound. "Jasper?"

I look over at my clock and curse under my breath when I realize that Emmett has a plane to catch in roughly an hour. "Hold on, Em," I call, sitting up and unraveling myself from the covers. "I'll be right out."

As soon as Emmett's footsteps can be heard heading back toward the living room, Alice groans and lies down again, throwing her arm over her face. "I ruined his visit."

"Shhh, Alice, no. You didn't, I promise." I put my arms around her and touch my lips to her head, momentarily forcing her frighteningly empty gaze from my mind. "Emmett came with me to get you last night when Charlotte called. He was worried about you, too."

Alice lifts her arm off her face and looks up at me sadly. "Tell him I'm sorry, okay?"

"Al—"

"_Please_, Jasper," she insists. "Just tell him?"

Grudgingly, I nod and release her, knowing that arguing will get me nowhere.

My legs are like lead when I finally manage to struggle out of bed. My left knee refuses to bend at all, and my right knee works only through a searing, painful effort. I half expect Alice to gasp, or stop me, or ask me what happened as I make my way across the room, but when I reach the door, I turn around to see her face buried in her pillow. She probably doesn't even know I'm still here.

I click the door shut behind me and then head out into the living room, where I'm completely unsurprised to see the place in a state of disarray. Shopping bags are haphazardly strewn about the floor, Alice's purse lies diagonally across one of the chairs, the coffee table is littered with dishes and magazines, a pillow and a blanket are balled up at the end of the couch… Classic Emmett etiquette, right there. But the concerned, anxious look he gives me when he looks up from zipping up his bag makes it easy to forgive the mess.

"She okay?" he asks, standing and slinging his duffel over his shoulder.

"She's talking again," I offer, purposefully evading the question. Then, humorlessly, I add, "She wanted me to tell you she's sorry for ruining your visit."

"What? She didn't..." He pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Can I see her?"

I frown. "Em, now's probably not a good—"

"Yeah, yeah, I figured as much," he grumbles, sarcasm leaking into his voice. I wince a bit at the insinuation, this being the first time that Emmett has, however indirectly, alluded to my behavior after the fire. But before I can figure out how to respond, he crosses the room and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it out to me.

"Could you just give her this? You know, when she's feeling better, or… whatever."

I look down at the paper incredulously. Did he seriously write her a _letter_?

"Read it if you want. It's just a thank you," he clarifies, looking me over pointedly and then shrugging. "Sorta."

_Jesus Christ... he's thanking her for me._

Overwhelmed by the fresh guilt of this realization, I drop my eyes and reach out to take the letter. Only when I grab it, Emmett tightens his grip, forcing me to look up at him.

"Jasper," he says, using the same, protective tone he'd used when we got back to the apartment last night. "Are you _sure_ you know what you're doing with her?"

I grip the paper harder and set my jaw, drawing a long, deep breath through my nose. One part of me really wants to take this out he's offering—to admit that I know fuck-all about what's happening to Alice, and to have Emmett stay and help me convince her that she needs to get the kind of professional help that I can't provide. But another, larger, _louder_ part of me is infuriated by the cowardliness of this first option. I mean, _Christ_, Alice stood by me through _everything_. Even when I was violent, even when I was an ass, even when I wanted to _die_, Alice was there, standing up for me when I couldn't stand up for myself. Never once did she say, 'you know what? I can't handle this anymore. Maybe you should find someone else to help you.' She never bailed; she never left me to work through shit on my own, even though I'm sure she must've wanted to at times. And now _she_ needs _me_, and I can't just hand her over to someone else like she's some sort of burden that I don't want to deal with. She and I—we'll figure this out; we always do. Between the two of us, we'll find a way to make this right.

"Yes," I say evenly, letting out my breath and leveling my gaze. "I'm sure."

I tug lightly on the paper again, and this time it gives way when Emmett releases it, the conviction in my voice obviously having mollified him.

"I've gotta get going, then," he says, turning and walking toward the front door. "There's a cab waiting for me downstairs."

I stuff the letter in my back pocket, and then follow him, a thought occurring to me along the way.

"Listen, Em," I say, catching up with him just as he opens the door. "If my parents ask about Alice, can you not—"

Emmett puts a hand up to stop me. "If they ask, I'll tell 'em you two are taking care of each other."

"Thanks," I breathe, relieved that, for the time being at least, I don't have to worry about my family getting involved in what Alice and I need to work through privately. "And thanks for coming," I continue, extending my hand. Then, lamely, awkwardly, I add, "And for… everything else."

Emmett rolls his eyes, and then grips my arm at the elbow and pulls me in for some sort of quasi-man-hug that ends with him pounding me on the back. _Hard_. I hiss more out of surprise than anything else, which was obviously the intended result, because when I straighten up again, Emmett is smirking goofily, like he's just told the world's funniest joke.

"I'll see you in a few weeks," he reminds me as he steps out into the hallway. I manage a smile before saying goodbye and shutting the door, genuinely glad that he's coming back so soon. Hopefully by then, everything will be normal again.

Turning back to my empty, quiet apartment, I suddenly remember how very far from normal we are.

I limp over to the sink and pour a glass of water, gulping the whole thing down before refilling it and carrying it back to the bedroom. Opening the door cautiously, I find Alice sitting up in the middle of the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest. While I was gone she changed into a pair of my sweatpants and one of my tee-shirts, both of which hang and bag around her body loosely, making her appear smaller. She shakes her head when I offer her the water, so I place it on my desk and then sit down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.

"Emmett wanted me to give you this," I say, freeing his note from my pocket and handing it to her. She sets it on the bed without looking at it and then wraps her arm back around her knees protectively. Her body is angled out toward the room, but I see her watching me out of the corner of her eye, warily, probably anticipating what I'm about to say.

I take a breath, and then reach out to touch her shoulder. "We can try looking for them again, Alice," I reassure her quietly. "You know more now than you did after the accident. If you've remembered more, we could—"

Shrugging my hand off, she turns to face me, her eyes narrowed in anger. "I _told_ you, Jasper, I don't remember _anything_," she argues, an unnatural sneer appearing on her lips. "My name _might_ be Alice. I _might_ have a brother. The night of the accident, I _might've _been trying to get someplace that may or may not be surrounded by mountains and snow… God, Jasper, those aren't _memories_. Those are just _guesses_."

"What if the guesses are right?" I ask, my voice catching dryly in my throat.

Alice raises her eyebrow caustically. "And what if they're _wrong_?"

"_This_ is what I _know_," she continues after a minute, turning to look out at the room. I follow her gaze, letting my eyes scan over the desk, the bookshelf, the closet, the four bare walls, the faded bloodstain on the floor—the grey light still hanging like a dusty shadow over it all. Up until last night, this place had been a sanctuary. Today, it feels more like a prison.

Alice pushes backward on the bed and then lies down so that her head is in my lap, her knees still pulled defensively up to her chest. "_You_ keep finding me, Jasper. No one else does. _This_ is what I _want_. I don't need anything else."

I look down at her without moving, my breath stinging as I hold it in my lungs. There was a time, I'm sure, when an admission like this from her would've sounded sweet; a time when the idea that I could be _everything _for her would've been thrilling, uplifting, wonderful. But this, today, is neither sweet nor wonderful. This is Alice giving up. This is her defeat.

And all at once, I _know, _with absolute certainty, what's been missing from Alice's eyes, her face, her voice ever since last night.

_Hope_. _She lost her hope._

I can only imagine how it must've seemed to her last night, standing on that corner, having come full circle since the accident. She woke up in the hospital a year ago knowing nothing about her past, and here she is, a year later, still without any answers. After all this time, it must seem easier just to write the few memories she's had off as dreams or illusions instead of believing that they could be real. Not having a brother, not having a home, not having a _life_ before the accident... all of that must seem better than having a past that never bothered to find her. That never even cared enough to look.

But this... _solution_ that she's come up with is tantamount to hiding. And, _god_... I know what hiding does to a person. I hid from my family, from Alice, from _myself_ for _months, _and it almost killed me. It _would've_ killed me if Alice hadn't stopped it from happening.

And I will not let that happen to her.

Finally letting out my breath, I bring my hand to her head and gently comb my fingers through her hair. She sighs and closes her eyes as soon as I touch her, a small, tired smile lifting the corner of her mouth. That smile reassures me that I can do this—that I can be for her what she's been for me all these months. I can be her comfort; I can be her hope.

Somewhere, _someone_ must remember the things that she's forgotten. Given that no one ever came for her, I'm sure that parts of her past are dark, troubled, painful. But I also know Alice—her goodness, her strength—and there's no way she could've turned out this way without moments of happiness as well. Either way, it's _her past_, and she deserves to have it restored to her. Even if no one is actively looking for her, she deserves to be found.


	23. Grotesques

**A/N**: I know it's been awhile, so here's a quick recap of what's happened last chapter: Charlotte called Jasper to tell him that Alice "fainted" after accidentally stumbling upon the scene of her bus accident. Jasper and Emmett drove to Peter and Charlotte's apartment to pick Alice up and bring her back to Jasper's apartment. The next morning, Emmett left and Alice admitted to Jasper that she was no longer interested in finding her family, and that she just wanted to move on with her life. Outwardly Jasper agreed with her, but inwardly he decided that he would begin looking for her family on his own.

Thanks to Twila Reaux, as always, for being a fantastic beta. And thanks also to cinnamonscars for bribing me to write this and putting up with my whining when I couldn't get things right.

Speaking of cinnamonscars, I wrote her a o/s for her birthday called _Epitaph for an Empty Grave_. It's canon Em/R, and I had a fun time writing it, so if you have time, check it out.

**A note on formatting:**Yes, this is another weirdly formatted chapter, but fortunately, this should be the last one of these. This chapter covers the twenty days in between the day Emmett leaves and the day before Jasper's family arrives in Philadelphia. The POV switches throughout and is never explicitly stated, though hopefully you should be able to tell who is narrating based on the events being described. I'm sorry if it's a little confusing--if you have any questions, feel free to PM me.

Like always, Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

* * *

Chapter 22: _Grotesques_

"_It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood."  
~Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio

* * *

_

March 29th

It's the same dream as always: the salty air, the cloudless sky, the sand disappearing into the unfathomable expanse of the sea; soft, golden light melting over the shoulders of the four figures waving at me from the shore. And, as always, as soon as I take one hesitant step forward, the mirage undulates briefly in the imagined breeze, and then dissolves completely into darkness.

I open my eyes and Jasper is already holding me, whispering comfort against my skin even though I'm sure I haven't cried. _This is real, this is real,_ I tell myself as I clutch his arms to my chest and let my fingers brush over his scars, my scars.

_this is real, this is real, this is real_

March 30th

My therapist watches me with narrowed eyes as my legs struggle to lift the padded bar that's lying across my ankles. I only manage to raise the fifteen-pound weights an inch or so off the rest of the stack before she stops me, throwing her chart and pen to the floor.

"What happened?" she asks, dropping down to one knee and taking the hem of my sweatpants between her fingers. "This was your easy weight last week. Now you can barely lift it. What did y—"

Her eyes widen and her mouth hangs open mid-word as she pushes the fabric up over my knee. I've already seen what's eliciting this reaction of course, but I follow her stare anyway, morbidly fascinated with the degeneration of my own body. It's only been two hours since I got dressed, but already my skin seems tighter, the red tears in my calf seem darker, and the bruises peppering my skin seem to have multiplied so that my leg is now more blue than white. My therapist prods my swollen kneecap gently, and the skin dips and swells away from her finger as though it were a balloon that has been filled with water.

"Jasper Whitlock… what on earth did you _do_ to yourself?"

March 31st

"Today was the first time I heard you."

Jasper looks up from his meal, his eyes widened in surprise, confusion.

"I didn't say anything, Alice."

I shake my head a spear a piece of meat with my fork, raising it to my lips. "Not _today_. I mean a _year_ ago—in the hospital. You woke me up. You… you were screaming."

His face colors slightly at my words, and his lips twitch into a frown. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, not meeting my eyes.

"I'm not," I counter without stopping to think how inappropriate that sounds. Mentally I kick myself, and then do my best to try to recover without sounding like a complete heartless idiot. "I mean… what I mean is that I wanted to scream too. Or yell, or curse, or cry, but I didn't know it was okay. You screamed, and I knew it was okay to be angry. You… woke me up."

Jasper shifts uncomfortably in his seat and then lays his fork down on the table. "It's still okay, you know," he says, glancing up at me again. "It's still okay to be angry."

Now it's my turn to blush and look away. Didn't we just have this conversation a few days ago? I'm _not_ angry—not anymore. I'm just tired: tired of wanting and tired of needing when everything I want and need is already _right here_.

"I'm not," I say dismissively, standing to carry my empty dishes into the kitchen. Slowly, methodically I wash my plate and my silverware, giving Jasper time to understand that this particular conversation is closed. When I shut off the water and look over at him, he's eating again, and so I move to stand behind him, running my fingers through his hair. He leans back into me, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, clasping my hands together over his chest.

"A year ago, where did you think you'd be… in a year?" I ask ineloquently. "Right now, I mean. A year ago, what did you think you'd be doing right now?"

Jasper laughs dryly. "I dunno," he shrugs, "probably still screaming. How about you?"

"Alone," I answer without hesitation. I feel Jasper tense beneath me, but then he brings his arms up to cross them over mine, holding me as hard and as close as he can in this strange position.

_I thought I'd be alone._

April 1st

"So wait, you're telling me you didn't do _anything_?"

I close my eyes, already so bored with this conversation that I'm considering hanging up the phone.

"No, Emmett. Nothing. I just… didn't even think about it."

"But it's _April Fool's Day_," he insists, genuine shock in his voice. "It's like, the best holiday _ever_. How could you _not_ do something?"

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that today is not, in fact, a holiday. It's true, though that Emmett usually treats it as such—spending weeks planning elaborate pranks. The year we shared a dorm room, he'd super glued all my shoes to the floor and reset my alarm to go off at 4:00 in the morning. He'd also bought three ducks that year from god-knows-where and painted them with the numbers 1, 3, and 4 before setting them loose in the dorm hallways. Needless to say he got a JR from our RA after the campus police spent all day searching for duck number 2.

Emmett thought it was hilarious. He was still laughing about it the next day, even while he was scraping every single one of my shoes up off the floor.

"It's just not a good time right now," I say, sighing as I lean back in my desk chair.

Emmett suddenly grows quiet, his breathing harsher, tense. "I thought you said she was getting better."

"She is," I answer quickly—_too_ quickly. I take a deep breath in an attempt to eradicate the defensiveness from my voice. "She _is_. I just don't think switching the locks on our apartment door while she's at work will go over too well right now, you know?"

The reminder of yet another prank Emmett has pulled on me in this past (this one not even corresponding to April Fool's Day) works: he laughs easily, giving me a perfect opportunity to divert the conversation away from Alice. I wasn't lying when I told him that she's doing much better than the last time he saw her—she's talking, eating, going to work, sleeping. But something is still… off.

It seems like she's just going through the motions now—doing things just for the sake of doing them.

I haven't seen her draw or sketch or paint in days.

"Did you do anything to Rose?" I ask, trying to distract myself from this train of thought.

"Nothing yet. Your mom's taking her out to lunch in a bit though, and as soon as they leave, I'm gonna come home from work and move her car to a neighbor's garage down the street. Your mom's in on it, too—she's even gonna take a picture of Rose's face when she thinks her car's been stolen."

I laugh, fully aware that _no one_ tampers with my sister's car without suffering severe consequences. "She's gonna kill you, Em. You know this, right?"

"Yeah, but it'll be worth it," he says, his grin audible. "She'll be pissed at first, but ten bucks says she thinks it's hilarious once she's had time to cool down."

I snort and shake my head. "You're on."

We talk for a few more minutes before Emmett announces that it's time to put his prank into action, and ends the call. I pocket my phone and head back into my bedroom, intending to grab my laptop and a few books and head to the library to complete yet another make-up assignment. But just as it has for the past four days, seeing the room turns my stomach to knots, and I have to pause in the doorway for a few seconds before I've regained my composure enough to enter.

On Sunday, Alice went on a massive cleaning spree: scrubbing and disinfecting every available surface of our apartment, cleaning and folding all the bed-sheets, organizing the closets and rearranging the furniture. Since then, everything has felt foreign, sterile. The smell of bleach and disinfectant still hangs in the air so heavily that I have to keep a window open so that I can breathe.

And as I look at the neatly-made, hospital-cornered bed, I can't help but envy my sister. In a few hours, two little words will magically reveal that the terrible thing she thinks has happened to her is just an innocent joke.

I wish someone were playing a joke on me.

April 2nd

Sometimes, when business is slow, I'll leaf through the maps and brochures we keep at the front desk of the hotel. That's how I used to find places I thought might be interesting to draw. It's also the how I get ideas for things that Jasper and I can do on my days off. Actually, I've developed kind of a reputation among hotel employees because of this little habit, and so now, whenever a customer asks for recommendations of things to do in the area, my co-workers will refer them to me for advice. It's kind of fun, really—being an amateur tour guide of sorts.

But today, as I browse our one and only map of greater Pennsylvania, I have a different purpose in mind. One by one, I run my fingers over the names of every city in the state. Some, of course, I've heard of before: Pittsburgh, Allentown, Harrisburg. But others are more obscure. Who knew that there was a Bethlehem right here in Pennsylvania? And how exactly does one pronounce the name Monogahela?

So many places I didn't even know existed, and yet nowhere, in the entire state, is anything called Penn Station.

Not a memory; just a guess.

April 3rd

Jasper knocks on the bathroom door to let me know that our Chinese food delivery has arrived, and I tell him that I'll be out in a minute. I wait until I hear his footsteps retreating down the hall before I turn to face the full-length mirror hanging on the bathroom door. Before I can change my mind, I un-tuck my towel and let it drop to the floor.

I blink a few times, assessing the naked girl in the mirror, trying to force myself to think in possessive pronouns.

_My eyes are brown. My shoulders are bony. My breasts are small. My thighs… could use a little work, if we're being honest. My knees are bowed. _

I raise one hand to my chest and deliberately trace the white scar that runs from my sternum down to the bottom of my ribcage. I do the same with the scars on my hip and my wrist, and then turn around and look over my shoulder so that I can see the jagged white lines cutting across my back. I touch everything I can reach, including the heart-shaped design tattooed into my skin.

And then I face the mirror again. I cross my arms over my chest and dig my nails into my ribs until it hurts.

_Alice Brandon_, I mouth, watching my lips form the silent words; wanting to cry, but somehow forgetting how to summon tears.

_Alice Brandon. Alice Brandon._

_Me. My. Mine._

_I._

April 4th

I flip open my journal for what's probably the hundredth time in three months. The leather binding is already creased from overuse, and so the journal lies flat on the carrel desk, Alice's drawings staring up at me from the inside front cover. Just as they always have, the pictures mock me—daring me to find something in my stupid brain that's worthy enough to share this space with them. Somehow, schoolwork and shitty fiction have never quite seemed to fit the bill.

But today, _finally,_ I have something to contribute.

Somewhere, _someone_ must have realized that Alice is missing. If not her family, then a friend, a co-worker, a classmate, a neighbor, _someone_. And so my plan, insofar as it can be called such, is pretty simple: scour ever single missing persons database—both those available on the internet and in print—and hope that one of the entries matches Alice's description. If that doesn't work, my other options include posting Alice's profile on "people finder" websites and/or hiring a private investigator to find out what he can about Alice's apparently nonexistent past. It might take time, but fortunately, time is one thing I have going for me. My make-up schoolwork is almost complete, and so whenever Alice is at the hotel, I can be here, in the library, trying to piece together her life.

Deciding the best way to start is by making a list of all the things I know about Alice that I can compare to what I find in my research, I flip to the first page of the journal. Hesitantly, in an almost embarrassing and illegible script, I write down the first thing that comes to mind.

_Name: Alice Brandon._

I pull back from the desk and look at the words, and am strangely relieved that I've _finally_ started this process that should've begun months ago. I'm just about to continue with her other details—hair color, eye color, height, weight—when I stop short, my breath catching audibly as I realize the error of what I've just written.

_Name: Alice Brandon._

Dropping my pen back down to the page, I cross it out.

April 5th

_Alice,_

_I suck at stuff like this, so sorry in advance. But the other night, despite running my mouth like a jackass, I managed to __not__ say the one thing that needed saying most. And, since I don't think I'll get to see you again before I leave, this will have to do._

_I can't even begin to understand the things that you and Jasper have been through together. Thanking you for everything that you've done for him almost seems inappropriate, since, given the choice, I'm sure that neither of you would've chosen to go through any of it. But I __have__ to thank you, because there were times when I honestly didn't think I'd ever see him again, and, well… Rosalie isn't the only one who's spent the past year thinking she might've lost a brother._

_I hope you know that I would've been there for him, if he'd let me. That goes for Rosalie and his parents as well. If he'd just let us see him, or picked up the phone __once__ when we called, or answered __one__ stupid e-mail, we __all__ would've been there. And even though I can kind of understand what you said the other night about him needing distance to heal, the fact that __we__ couldn't be what he needed is always going to hurt. _

_But, Alice, I'm glad he had you. I'm glad he __has__ you. And even though it's inadequate and most likely inappropriate of me to say, thank you for being whatever it was he needed._

_One more thing, and then I swear I'll shut up. _

_I'm writing my phone number on the back of this page. Use it if you ever need anything. __Anything__. And before you get the wrong idea, I'm not giving it to you so that I can somehow 'pay you back' for helping Jasper. I'm giving it to you because you're Jasper's family now, Pix, and by extension, that makes you mine, too. So I'll be expecting to hear from you sometime. _

_I mean it._

_--Emmett_

_P.S. Sorry about ripping a page out of your sketchbook. I couldn't find any paper._

_P.P.S. Oh, and I used one of your fancy pencils because I couldn't find a pen, either._

_P.P.P.S I also knocked over one of your bottles of paint. I cleaned it up before it dried, but if you're wondering why you're short half a bottle of Forest Green (or why you're missing a washcloth)… yeah, that's why. Sorry._

April 6th

I'm sitting in a chair in the hotel lobby, reading a magazine while I wait for Alice to get off work, when I feel someone lightly kick my shoe. I look up expecting to hear an apology. Instead, I have to do a double take when I see the small girl standing there, looking at me expectantly.

"So, are you ready to go?" she asks, her voice slightly amused. "Or is—" she reaches down to flip the front of my magazine over to read the cover, "—_Car and Driver_ really that interesting?"

I blink twice, my mouth hanging open dumbly. "Did you… Did you get a haircut?" I finally manage to blurt out.

Alice smiles, reaching up to pinch one tiny, spiked lock of hair between her fingers. "Yup, I went during my lunch break. Like it?"

"It's… short."

Her smile quickly fades into a frown—an angry one at that. "You don't like it."

"No, that's not it, it's just…" I grimace, knowing that I'm digging a massive hole for myself, but not quite knowing how to get out of it. It's not that she looks _bad_—hell, to be honest, it's kind of cute. But I know from the picture I saw of her just after her accident that her hair had once been long—_very _long—and I thought that she'd been growing it out purposefully so that she could look more like her old self again.

"Well, _I_ like it better like this," Alice huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. I almost want to laugh at how petulant and childlike she sounds, until I remember that this isn't fucking funny at all. I know what she's trying to do; I know what she's trying to separate herself from. And it scares the hell outta me.

I toss the magazine on the table and stand up, encircling her with my arms. Closing my eyes, I force myself to bring my hand up and run my fingers through her choppy hair. Somehow I manage not to shudder.

"It's nice," I say, whispering so she can't pick up on the deceitful inflection in my voice. "I like it, too."

April 7th

I don't tell Alice where I'm going.

In fact, it's worse than that. I deliberately lie to her and tell her that I'll be in the library all day, just like always. And then, fifteen minutes after her shift starts, I get in my car and start driving—taking the long way out of town to avoid going past the hotel. Even so, I keep my cell out on the seat next to me the whole time, convinced that she'll somehow figure out I'm lying and call to make explain what I'm up to.

The phone never rings.

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing over a pile of rain-soaked ashes, watching a frayed piece of faded yellow caution tape slap against the tree to which it's been tied.

I'm not really sure what I thought coming back here would accomplish. I suppose some part of me hoped that it would help me understand—understand why, even after two weeks, Alice still moves around the apartment like she's only half aware of where she is. Understand why she's stopped painting; understand why she's stopped reading or listening to music or even wanting to leave the house if she doesn't have work. Understand why, despite everything that's happened to her, I have yet to see her cry.

But looking at this picnic table, these rocks, this lake, I know that there's no understanding here. There's anger—that's for damn sure. There's resentment and guilt and even fear, too. And, to add fucking insult to injury, there are also memories: many of which I've had before, but also some—like the name of the man who pulled me from the water, or the way the mud felt when I dug into it with my fingers to keep from screaming in pain—that I'd forgotten until now.

And then there's more anger. Enough to make me kick at the pile of ashes at my feet, scattering dirt and half-burnt chips of wood across the water.

_I'm losing her. _

The harder I try to find her, the faster she slips away.

April 8th

I lie in the dark, listening to the sound of the water running from the sink in the bathroom. Alice has already been in there for fifteen minutes, and if the pattern of the past two mornings is any indication, she won't be done in there for another half hour. And when she does finally step out into the hallway, she won't be Alice anymore.

She will be a sentient mannequin, a marionette without the strings. Flawlessly dressed, hair styled to plastic perfection, face painted smooth with layer after layer of heavy makeup. Her eyes will appear to shine thanks to the bright eye shadow she's brushed onto her eyelids; her ivory skin will seem less pale because of the blush she's applied carefully, artfully across her cheeks.

The painter and the canvas in one. A fraying rag-doll, concealed by a porcelain mask.

April 9th

It takes me two days to get up the courage to thank Emmett for his letter, and even then, I feel so awkward about the whole thing that I can't bring myself to do it by phone. Instead, I send him a text message in which I both thank him and apologize again for ruining his visit.

_ur welcome and u didnt, _he texts back. _it was a shitty game anyway. howd u know they were gonna lose?_

Relieved both that he doesn't seem angry and that he seems willing to overlook the little freak-out he'd witnessed, I jokingly respond that I'm a part-time psychic. Playing along, he writes back, _gr8. i have a performance eval w/ j's dad in 10. hows it gonna go?_ Knowing from Jasper that his father considers Emmett to be very good at his job, I tell him that he'll do fine. Not surprisingly, an hour later he writes back saying that I was right. And that's how this whole ridiculous thing starts.

Every day now—usually more than once—I'll get a text from Emmett asking me to "predict the future." His requests range from entertaining (_hey pix—whats the weather gonna b like in russia on tues?_) to semi-serious (_hows rose gonna take it when i tell her i dont wanna have a huge bday party 4 chip?_), and my responses are probably wrong more often than right. But just as it does tonight, the sound of my phone buzzing makes me smile. The routine, the easy banter, the feeling of being wanted and appreciated—it's all a welcome distraction from everything that I'm trying to remember to forget.

_76ers vs chicago 2night. plz tell me theyre gonna win._

Sometimes I forget how good it feels to laugh.

April 10th

_**Catherine Grace Rawls****  
NCMC1119463  
**__-Endangered Runaway**  
DOB:**__ Mar 23, 1991 __**Age:**__ 17**  
Missing:**__ May 2, 2008 __**Race:**__ White**  
Location: **__POTTSVILLE, PA, US_

_**Pauline Elizabeth Woodward****  
NCMC1081349**__  
-Non-Family Abduction**  
DOB:**__ June 13, 1989 __**Age:**__ 19**  
Missing:**__ Jul 20, 2008 __**Race:**__ White**  
Location: **__ESSINGTON, PA, US_

_**Morgan Jean Littleton****  
NCMC1054977**__  
-Missing**  
DOB:**__ Dec 23, 1991 __**Age:**__ 17**  
Missing:**__ Jan 14, 2008 __**Race:**__ White**  
Location: **__ROBINSON TOWNSHIP, PA, US_

April 11th

I think what surprises me most about working in a hotel are the secrets people use this place to keep.

For instance: Ronald Scott checks in every Tuesday afternoon without fail, his only luggage a garment bag he has slung over one shoulder. Exactly thirty minutes after his arrival, a blonde woman who must be half his age arrives at the front desk and asks to know which room her husband is staying in. She doesn't wear a wedding ring. At 6:45 the next morning, Ronald Scott leaves the hotel wearing a new suit. "Mrs. Scott" leaves the hotel fifteen minutes later, dressed in the same clothes she wore the night before.

And then there's the girl who works in the hotel bar in exchange for lodging in one of our less desirable rooms, since she's too scared to tell her parents that she failed out of college months ago.

And of course there's the suite on the fifth floor that we keep on standby, just in case a certain prominent Philadelphia businessman happens to need a place to… _entertain_ his entourage of fresh-faced "interns" on short notice.

The list goes on.

We even have a semi-official (though unspoken) policy for situations like these: smile, be polite, shake hands, and—as long as nothing illegal is going on—look the other way. The formula is simple, and it works. At the Sheraton Hotel, our staff is fully trained in the lucrative side-business of secret-keeping. Don't ask questions; don't learn things you didn't know you didn't want to know.

Jasper has a secret. He's had one ever since the morning Emmett left. I don't know what it is, but I can tell by the way he looks at me now—or rather, by the way he looks _away_ every time our eyes meet. I feel it every time he puts his arm around me and I can barely feel the weight of it on my shoulders, like he's trying not to touch me at all. I hear it in the silences between us that used to be comfortable, but are now filled with white noise, like television static. There's something he's trying to say, but the picture just won't focus.

When he enters the hotel lobby today I notice that he's walking slower than usual—limping more than he used to—and I find that I don't know whether this started this morning, or a day ago, or a week ago. And suddenly I'm tired of all the secrets. I grab my stuff and walk around the desk to meet him, determined to ask him what's going on. But before I can open my mouth, he puts his arm around my shoulders and lightly pulls me against his side, his fingers as light as air as they brush against my face.

I smile halfheartedly up at him and take his hand.

We both look away.

April 12th

Easter is the last of the holidays I don't remember.

Technically, I guess, I _should_ remember Easter. The media sure had a field day with it last year. I was the Easter Miracle—resurrected, brought back from the dead on Easter Day. But I remember none of it. Drugs and pain make things like dates and holidays and miracles irrelevant.

So this is my first Easter.

I spend the day at work, and almost every single person who checks in makes some comment about how tragic it is that I have to work on a holiday. I want to tell them that I think it's tragic they're spending the holiday in a hotel, but instead I smile and hand them their room key and the key to their mini bar. During my down time I put in an order with our vendor for a double shipment of alcohol, knowing that we'll probably be a little short come tomorrow morning.

Jasper picks me up at 5:00. We have ham sandwiches for dinner because I don't feel like cooking a real meal. After dinner, I watch Easter Parade on TV while Jasper watches some basketball game through picture-in-picture. At 10:00, we both go to bed.

I wonder if I'll remember this Easter a year from now.

April 13th

Rosalie sighs impatiently through the phone. "So what's the occasion?"

"No occasion," I answer, frowning as I look at dish sitting on the counter in front of me. "Are you sure this is right, Rose? It doesn't look right."

"C'mon, J—you're making dinner for the girl. There has to be _some_ occasion. Anniversary? Or did you piss her off? I bet you pissed her off."

In fact, I did _not_ piss Alice off—at least, not intentionally. But Rose is right: there _is_ a reason I've suddenly decided to try my hand at cooking after twenty-one plus years of never making a single meal that didn't come packaged in a box. It was Alice's idea, really, though she doesn't know it yet. Her comment a few weeks ago about the first time she'd heard me through our shared hospital wall got me thinking about the first time we'd actually _talked_. Exact dates from my first few weeks in the hospital are difficult for me to remember, but after a lot of thought, I'd finally reached the conclusion that Alice had first talked to me a year ago today. Of course I'd been an ass to her—that was pretty much standard operating procedure back then. Still, I guess this _is_ an anniversary of sorts, as well as my attempt at a terribly belated apology.

_Damn Rosalie for being such a know-it-all._

"Honestly, Rose," I grumble, determined not to let her know that she's (at least _partially_) right, "there's no _occasion_. I just wanted to do something nice. Now can you help me or not?"

"I'm pretty sure I've been helping you for the past twenty minutes, Jasper."

"I know, but I'm _telling_ you, something is missing. This _really_ doesn't look right."

Rosalie must hear the hint of panic in my voice, because instead of pestering me further about the _non-_occasion, she laughs. "Relax, stupid, you probably just forgot the barbeque sauce."

Sure enough, I've forgotten the fucking barbeque sauce. Setting the phone down on the counter, I grab the bottle from the fridge and spread the contents out evenly over the meat. Mentally, I kick myself—_again_—for being so incompetent in the kitchen that the only meal I'm capable of preparing for my girlfriend is fucking meatloaf—and even then, I have to have my sister on the phone the whole time, guiding me through the process from beginning to end.

"Looks better now, doesn't it?" Rosalie says when I pick the phone back up.

I roll my eyes, but manage to keep most of the sarcasm out of my voice when I concede that she was right.

"Okay, so… it's ready to go now, right? That's it?"

"Well, you have to _bake_ it," Rose answers, not even attempting to hide the sarcasm in _her_ voice. "350 for an hour and fifteen minutes. Start checking it at about an hour though, to make sure it doesn't burn. You did preheat the oven, right?"

On instinct, I turn toward the oven, my eyes automatically landing on the dial—which is still securely set to 'off.' Admitting my less-than-stellar grasp of culinary knowledge to my sister is one thing; having a full-blown panic attack with her on the other line is another thing entirely. _350 for an hour and fifteen minutes_. That's something I'll have to deal with on my own.

"Got it. Thanks for your help, Rosalie."

Again, she laughs. "No worries, J. Call me later and let me know if she forgives you."

If my heart weren't already racing in anticipation of what I'm about to do, I'd respond to her comment with an equal dose of snark. As it is, I simply fold the phone shut and toss it toward the kitchen table, hardly even registering the noise it makes when it misses its destination by a foot and clatters to the floor.

It takes me twenty minutes to work up the nerve to turn the dial to 350. Forty minutes later—shaking and sweating so hard that I can barely hold the pan in my hands—I finally get the thing in the oven. I swear to god, I'm damn near tears as I stand out on the balcony to escape the phantom smell of smoke, checking my watch compulsively every few seconds, not knowing whether I want time to speed up—so that all this can be over with—or slow down—so that I have more time before I have to go back inside. Of course, time passes as it always does—methodically, relentlessly—and at 4:05pm, summoning the very last bit of my will, I make my way into the kitchen and turn the oven off.

I wait until I'm absolutely sure that the oven has cooled before opening it and removing the food. I sniff at it tentatively, and, deciding that it smells edible, set to work wrapping it in tinfoil to keep it somewhat warm. I'm just putting the foil back in the drawer when I hear the front door open. Turning around, I see Alice closing the door behind her.

"What're you doing home?" I ask, nervously looking at the clock to make sure I haven't somehow missed the time I was meant to pick her up from work. _4:30—she's early._

"I didn't take lunch today, so I got off an hour early. I tried calling but…" she glances down at the kitchen floor. "What happened to your phone?"

I follow her gaze and see my cell lying in two distinct pieces: the battery completely separated from the rest of the phone. I shrug sheepishly. "I… guess it must've fallen."

Alice rolls her eyes and bends down to pick up the pieces of my phone, and for the first time, I notice the bags she's carrying in her hands. My heart sinks when I see the take-out Chinese food logo emblazoned onto the plastic.

"What's all that?" I ask warily.

"This is what I was calling about," Alice answers, placing the bags on the kitchen counter next to my food and then snapping the battery back into my phone. "I don't know why, but I _really_ wanted some Orange Chicken, so I stopped by on the way home. But, I mean, if you've already gotten something else…"

She eyes the foil-wrapped meatloaf, her lips twitching into a poorly-disguised frown. I know I should just tell her that I've cooked for her. I want nothing more than to explain the whole elaborate story about how I called my sister, and how I freaked out, and how it was all so damn worth it because I was doing it for _her_. But I can't. Because, as ridiculously stupid as it sounds, this is the first time that Alice has expressed an interest in _anything_—even something as lame as orange chicken—in weeks. So… fuck it. Orange fucking Chicken it is.

"This'll keep," I say, picking up my dish and putting it in the refrigerator. She smiles—_actually smiles_—up at me, and then hands me my phone and walks the takeout bags over to the table.

"C'mon, let's eat. I'm starving."

April 14th

"_Hello, you have reached the Whitlock residence. We are unable to take your call at the moment, but please leave your name and number, and we will get back to you as soon as possible."_

I wait for the compulsory beep, and then begin speaking. "Hey, mom, dad, Rose, Em—it's Jasper. I know it's Chip's birthday, and I was just calling to—"

A click on the other end of the line stops me mid-sentence. And then Rosalie's mocking, almost accusatory voice filters through the earpiece.

"So you _did_ remember."

"Yes, Rose," I respond with an equal degree of sarcasm, realizing that she probably intentionally let my call go to voicemail just so she could gauge whether or not I knew what day it was. "I remembered. I even have some presents for him. I'll give 'em to you guys when you get out here."

"You hear that, kiddo?" Rosalie croons, clearly no longer speaking to me. "Your uncle Jasper got you some birthday presents."

Through the phone I hear the unmistakable sound of a child laughing, and it amazes me that I'm still shocked every time I receive a fresh reminder that my sister, my _twin_ has a _child_. Idly I wonder if that will _ever_ seem real.

"Evidently he thinks your name is funny," Rosalie explains. Mercifully, I manage to resist pointing out the obvious similarity between his name an mine—or the fact that Emmett has somehow convinced the entire family that 'Chip' is an appropriate nickname for anything other than a Rescue Ranger.

"So how did things go last night?" she continues. "You out of the doghouse yet? Did Alice like the food?

I grimace and shut my eyes. "I _told_ you I didn't do anything wrong, Rosalie. And actually, we didn't end up eating what I made after all."

"Ah," she says, the mocking edge to her voice letting me know that I've chosen my words poorly, "so I guess things _did_ go well, huh?"

I groan into the phone, my sex life (or current lack thereof) not being something I'm particularly thrilled to be discussing with my sister. Rosalie laughs.

"Sorry, J, couldn't resist. Anyway, listen—I gotta go. People are going to be arriving for the party soon, and I still have some setting up to do. So I guess I'll see you in a few days?"

"Mmhmm," I mutter, deciding that answering with my mouth shut is preferable to questioning the logic behind throwing a birthday party for a _one-year-old._

"Thanks for calling, Jasper," she adds. In the background, I hear Chip laugh.

I smile despite myself, infected by my nephew's laughter at my expense. "No worries Rose. Tell everyone I said hi, and… I guess I'll see you guys soon."

The smile remains on my face even after I click my phone shut and slip it into my pocket. Of course I'm nervous about seeing my family again, but I'm also excited, relieved—glad to see this year of voluntary isolation finally coming to an end.

Of course, my good mood effectively ends when I look up and remember calling Rosalie had been a distraction from something I didn't especially want to do. But now that the call is over…

Crossing over to the kitchen counter, I pull a foil-wrapped container out of a grocery bag. I open the refrigerator and am pleased to find that this store-bought meal is roughly the same size and shape as the pan that holds the food I made last night. Without hesitating, I replace the meatloaf with the chicken enchiladas, and then unceremoniously drop my first homemade meal into the trashcan, Pyrex pan and all.

I take the elevator downstairs and throw everything in the dumpster outside, and then begin walking toward the Sheraton to pick Alice up from work.

April 15th

He walks in the door and I kiss him because I can't remember the last time I heard him say, 'I love you.'

"Alice, what are you doing?" he says against my lips, only it sounds like, _awace whtru don _and I kiss him harder because all I can think about is how Emmett told me that Jasper thinks I'm made of glass, and maybe if I can just prove to him that he's wrong, everything will be okay again.

This time he kisses me back but his lips are angry and rough and I don't know whether it hurts or it feels good and honestly I don't _care_ because at least it's something, and even anger can mean _I love you._ So I kiss him hard and he's bending down and I'm standing on my toes and still our mouths knock together clumsily, teeth clicking against teeth and lips and tongues because we're both fed up and there's too much space between us.

I grip the base of my shirt and yank it over my head and I feel more than hear him mouth the word 'wait' against my lips and every time he speaks it makes me want to scream. I grab his hands and put them on me and he tries to pull away and in my head I hear Emmett saying, _made of glass, made of glass_ and so I press Jasper's hands into my skin until they finally begin to move on their own. Again it's angry, and against it hurts, but _I feel, I feel, I feel_ and so I kiss him harder.

My mouth is sore and my body aches in all the places where he isn't touching me, and when I run my hand up the front of his jeans he groans. Without releasing his lips I hook my fingers through his belt loops and begin walking backward, pulling him with me.

"Alice, please, wait for a second," he mumbles just as my calves come in contact with the couch. But I don't listen, or I don't understand, or I don't _care_ because I keep pulling him forward and it's only when we're both falling that I remember that there's a reason for Jasper's caution. But by then it's too late because my hand is already stinging from where it smacked something _hard_, my shoulder is already aching from hitting the armrest at full force, and Jasper is already doubled up at the other end of the couch clutching his arm and his knee alternately, like he doesn't know which one hurts more.

He doesn't look at me, and now I want to scream because he _won't_ speak, and I _can't_ speak because I'm too afraid of what I've done. Everything hurts and not in a good way and the room feels like it's spinning and I can't be here anymore. I leave my shirt on the floor and run half-naked into the bathroom where I shut and lock the door. I wrap a towel around my chest, and then sit down on the floor.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror.

I turn off the light.

April 16th

At first, I don't know what's woken me. But then I hear it again: two taps against the bathroom door. And then, Jasper's voice.

"Alice…?"

I lie there quietly, my face pressed against the tile, not sure whether or not I'm ready to speak. Jasper knocks again, his voice growing deeper, sterner.

"Alice, are you okay?"

And that breaks me. I scoff loudly, the sound ringing out as it ricochets around the bathroom. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that question?"

Jasper snorts, and then I hear him sit down on the ground, the door rattling as he leans against it. Without thinking, I scramble up and mimic his position. We sit in silence for a long time. The door vibrates against my back whenever he breathes, and I feel closer to him in this moment than I have in weeks.

"You've been hiding things," I finally whisper.

There's a scratching noise against the door, and I imagine him shrugging. "So have you."

I drop my head. "I'm so tired," I admit, my voice echoing off the tile again and again, the word _tired_ hanging lazily in the air. "And I don't want to do this right now—not with your parents and your sister and Emmett coming soon, I just… I need more time, Jasper. Please. I need more time."

He sighs, and the sound is frustration and relief together. "I know. It's okay."

And now that I'm listening, _really_ listening to him, I hear the exhaustion in _his_ voice. Because of me. He's hurt, he's worried, he's tired, all because of me.

I scoot forward and unlock the door, opening it inward. Jasper pushes himself back against the doorjamb, and then holds my shirt out to me. I quickly pull it over my head and discard the towel, and then tentatively move over to sit against Jasper's side.

"Let me see your finger," he says, already holding my right hand up to the light. He presses his thumb to the knuckle of my pointer finger, and I hiss at the unexpected pain. When he drops his hand, I'm surprised to see a small cut in my skin, a dark purple bruise already beginning to form around it.

"I don't think it's broken," he says calmly, relieved. "But you should probably ice it."

"How'd you know?" I ask, examining the wound I hadn't even realized I had until this moment. Jasper doesn't say anything, but when I look up into his face, I have my answer: his bottom lip is swollen, split down the center from where my hand smacked him when we fell. My heart clenches and my mouth hangs open; I can't even speak.

Jasper smirks and—unbelievably—bends down to kiss my head. "Trust me, Alice, I've had worse."

His "joke" is appalling, tasteless, stupid—and yet I laugh dryly anyway because it's all I can think to do. Jasper wraps both of his arms around me and rests his head on mine. I curl into him and hug my knees to my chest.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, his voice betraying that he already knows the answer.

"No. Are you?"

His arms hold me tighter, and I feel his head move against mine.

"No."

April 17th

"_Edward…"_

"_I'm sorry, Edward, I…"_

"_I'm coming…"_

I lie awake, listening to the same somnolent monologue I've heard for the past twenty nights, waiting for my cue to enter.

"_Tell mom I…"_

"_Tomorrow… I'm coming…"_

"_Wait… wait…"_

"_Jasper—"_

I roll over and drape my arm around Alice's waist, pulling her against me, tucking her into my side. She clings to me tightly, her trembling finally starting to ease as she matches her breathing to mine.

"It's okay," I murmur, kissing the top of her head. "I'm here, it's okay. You're okay, Alice. I'm here."

And this is where the scene always ends: she falling back asleep in my arms, and I lying awake for the rest of the night, praying that tomorrow will be the day when I finally find something—the day when I can finally tell her something that's true.

Something that's real.


End file.
